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HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


BY  ELVIRA. 


To  Him  who  farmed  the  willow 
Shall  be  this  olTering  made, 

From  humble  harp  bedewed  with  tears 
Beneath  the  willow *s  shade. 


BOSTON: 
PBINTED    FOR   THE   AUTHOR,  BY 

GEO.    C.    RAND    &  AVERY. 
1  8  5  9. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1858, 
By   MRS.  PERKINS, 
In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

Ransom,  the  Indian  Captive,       -      -      ■      "  1^ 

Appeal  for  the  Indian,  

Parody,      -      -  ' 

Lamentfor  Rev.  Jason  Lee,        -      -      -  " 
Minot's  Rock  Lighthouse,     '      '      '      '      '  ^ 

The  Martyr's  Grave,  

Minot's  Light  Ship,  

Gold!  gold '.gold!      -      -      -      "      -  " 

"  Blessed  is  he  that  considereth  the  poor,"     -      -  45 

Burritt's  Appeal,  

World's  Peace  Convention,  

Sebastopol,  

Hungarian  Heroine,  

-  62 

Our  Union,  

Two  Thousand  Liquor  Shops,  -  -  -  - 
"Washing  a  Swearer's  Mouth,'*    -       ■       -  - 

The  Unfaithful  Servant,  

"Follow  Mel"  ^1 

The  Stormy  Petrel,  '^^ 

Lines  Written  in  a  Tempest,       .      -      -      -  75 

Emigrant's  Farewell,  

Missionaries'  Farewell,  

To  a  Laborer  in  God's  Vineyard,  -      -      -      -  79 

To  a  Missionary  to  Hayti,  

Conversion  of  an  Indian  Chief,    -       -      -  " 
Autumn,  


CONTENTS. 


April,       -   87 

"  The  Ideal  and  the  Actual,"     -       -       -       .  90 

The  Dying  Leaf,   91 

The  Lion  and  the  Mouse,  -       -       -       -       -  95 

Second  Ad ventism,    -       -       -       -       -       -  99 

Pulpit  in  the  Graveyard,    -       -       -      -  -101 

Infidel's  Lament,       -       -       -       -       -  -104 

Christian's  Farewell,  -       -       -       -       -  -105 

Death  of  a  Child,   106 

Emily,   108 

Sudden  Death  of  a  Young  Maiden,    -      -      -  11 2 

"  Mother,  do  I  look  pretty  now  ?  "     -       -       -  115 

Death  of  a  Twin  Daughter,       -       -       -       -  1 1 7 

"  When  earthly  prospects  perish,"      -       -       -  1 1 9 
Spirit  Communings,   -       -       -       -       -  -120 

"  A  Bird  of  Passage,"   122 

Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God,"  -       -       -  123 

To  a  Poetess,   124 

To  an  Artist,   126 

To  my  Harp,"        -       -       -       -       -       -  128 

Life's  Changes,   129 

City  set  on  a  Hill,  —  A  Vision,  -      -      -      -  131 

Communion  with  the  Saviour,    -       -       -       -  135 

Vision  of  Heaven,   137 

Distant  Music,   139 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"-       -      -      -      -  141 

Weary  of  Earth,"   143 

The  Time  is  Short,   146 

The  Atlantic  Telegraph,   148 


NOTE. 


With  grateful,  tearful  remembrance,  is  recalled  the 
kindness  of  those  friends  who  aided  in  publishing  a  for- 
mer edition  of  this  little  work.  Offspring  of  weary- 
hours,  these  effusions,  like  her  who  penned  them,  might 
have  preferred  remaining  in  their  own  quiet  obscurity, 
but  at  the  call  of  duty  tremblingly  began  to  whisper, 
first  into  the  ears  of  intimate  friends,  then  unexpectedly 
cheered  and  entertained  in  other  homes  —  thus  minister- 
ing to  the  comfort  of  her  household  who  sends  them 
forth. 

God  bless  and  reward  a  thousand  fold,  each  kind 
benefactor. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


A  row  of  spreading  willows 

A  shady  bank  hung  o*er, 
Upon  the  dear  old  Kennebec, 

Close  by  a  cottage  door ; 

Where  once  a  weary  pilgrim 

Tarried  a  little  while, 
And  sought  her  hours  of  weariness 

With  music  to  beguile. 

Once  on  Euphrates*  willows 
Their  harps  the  captives  hung ; 

But  by  that  green  and  waving  group 
Was  hers  first  fully  strung. 

Beneath  those  shady  willows. 
Her  children,  bright  and  fair, 

Were  wont  to  sing  their  childish  songs, 
And  breathe  the  summer  air. 

By  those  sad,  drooping  willows. 
From  out  that  cottage  door, 

A  little  form  was  carried  forth, 
To  enter  there  no  more. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


Though  nought  beside  was  pleasant 

Around  that  cottage,  yet 
She  could  not  leave  those  willow  trees 

Without  this  kind  regret. 

"  Farewell,  ye  waving  willows  ! 

Beneath  your  shade  no  more 
Shall  children  sport  or  pilgrim  sing 

By  yonder  cottage  door. 

"I'll  go  where  lovelier  willows 
The  heavenly  landscape  deck, 

And  crystal  streams  more  brightly  flow 
Than  my  own  Kennebec. 

"  Beneath  those  heavenly  willows, 
No  more  earth's  grief's  111  reck, 

But  oft  with  pleasure  think  of  thee, 
My  own  dear  Kennebec. 

"  I  '11  tune  a  harp  celestial, 
A  crown  my  head  will  deck ; 

Farewell  to  thee,  my  Willow  Harp  I 
Farewell,  my  Kennebec  ! " 

To  Him  who  formed  the  willow 
Shall  be  this  offering  made. 

From  humble  harp  bedewed  with  tears 
Beneath  the  willow's  shade. 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


RANSOM,  THE  INDIAN  CAPTIVE. 

The  sound  of  wailing  is  heard  from  an  Indian  village, 
at  evening.  —  Funeral  rites  performed.  —  The  dead 
laid  in  the  sepulchre.  —  The  friends  return.  —  Ac- 
cording to  custom  they  remove  the  lodge.  —  They  con- 
tmue  their  wailings. 

The  listener  hears  a  voice  from  the  sepulchre  calling  in 
agonizing  tones  for  help. 

The  scene  changes  to  a  chamber,  where  a  female,  who 
had  heard  of  the  captive's  fate,  prays  to  God  for  his 
preservation.  —  The  prayer  of  faith  prevails.  —  An 
angel  is  sent  to  relieve  and  soothe  the  sufferer.  — 
The  angel's  song  in  the  night. 

The  captive  is  released.  —  Is  carried  to  the  home  of  the 
missionary. 

Becomes  a  bright,  useful,  happy  boy. 

Appeal  in  behalf  of  the  Indian. 

Hark  !  '  tis  the  sound  of  wailing 

Comes  on  the  evening  breeze, 
Forth  from  an  Indian  village  lone, 

By  yon  dark  forest  trees  ; 
It  tells  of  anguished  hearts  that  bleed, 

Of  hearts  all  filled  with  dread, 
As  they  bear  unto  his  resting-place 

Their  loved  and  early  dead. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

They  lay  him  in  the  sepulchre, 

With  wailings  loud  and  deep, 
The  place  where  ages  some  have  slept, 

In  death,  their  silent  sleep ; 
They  turn  from  thence,  and  backward  trace 

Their  sad  and  dreary  way, 
And  gain  once  more  their  lonely  home 

As  fades  the  light  of  day ; 

Their  lonely  home,  —  but  not  the  home 

That  death  has  dared  invade, 
That  spot  is  now  deserted, 

Their  lodge  in  ruins  laid  ; 
And  all  that  would  remind  them 

Of  him  so  lately  gone 
Must  perish  till  no  trace  remain 

Of  the  departed  one. 

Again  they  weep,  they  rend  the  air 

With  cries  of  frantic  grief, 
And  naught,  from  memory  of  the  past, 

Can  bring  their  hearts  relief ; 
Nor  is  there  aught  of  future  hope 

To  cheer  their  dark  despair, 
No  voice  comes  from  the  sepulchre,  — 

All,  all  is  silent  there. 

All  silent  there  ?  —  Doth  there  no  sound 

Come  from  the  slumbering  dead  ? 
From  those  whose  speech  in  life's  career 

Hath  filled  the  strong  with  dread  ? 
From  all  the  crowd  who  there  have  found 

A  common  home  at  last, 
No  cheering  word  on  their  despair, 

One  gleam  of  hope  to  cast  ? 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 

But  hush  !  Mcthinks  from  out  that  shrine 

A  mournful  wail  I  hear. 
Falling  in  deep  and  plaintive  tones 

Upon  the  listening  ear ; 
Oh  say,  is  it  a  spirit's  voice 

Piercing  the  deepening  gloom, 
To  tell  us  of  the  mysteries 

That  lie  beyond  the  tomb  ? 

Ah  no,  for  sure  that  wailing  sound  ' 

Is  one  of  human  woe,  — 
It  is  the  voice  of  deep  distress, 

Though  heard  in  accents  low. 
She  nearer  drew,  and  then  was  heard 

From  out  that  dwelling  lone, 
A  youthful  voice  thus  murmuring. 

In  a  sepulchral  tone  :  — 

II. 

*^  Help  !  help !  have  pity  on  me  ! " 

The  captive  feebly  moans,  — 

Oh,  soothe  my  dreadful  anguish  ; 

Hear,  hear  my  dying  groans,  — 
For  cruel  hands  have  bound  me, 

And  left  me  here  to  die, 
And  the  mouldering  dead  of  ages 

Around,  above  me  lie» 

*^  0  !  spirit  of  my  mother. 

Come,  help  thy  hapless  son ; 
Sad,  sad  the  weary  days  have  passed 

To  thy  forsaken  one. 
Since,  near  the  dreadful  battle, 

Where  my  father  bleeding  lay, 
They  tore  me  from  thy  bosom, 

And  forced  me  far  away. 


HAKP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 

*  See  !  here  I  lie  in  anguish, 

In  terror  and  in  fear, 
With  the  dead  above,  around  me 

And  doleful  sounds  I  hear  ! 
Unloose,  unloose  my  fetters, 

Unbar  my  prison-door, 
The  pure,  sweet  air  of  heaven 

0  let  me  breathe  once  more. 

*  Spread  o'er  me,  as  a  curtain, 

The  clear  and  calm  blue  sky ; 
On  the  lap  of  her  who  bore  me. 

Glad  I 'd  lay  me  down  and  die  ! 
A  drop,  one  drop  of  water, 

To  cool  my  parched  lip. 
Permit  me,  0  my  mother. 

From  thy  dear  hand  to  sip  ! 

^Alas!  no  mother  hears  me,  — 
No  pitying  friend  is  nigh,  — 
With  the  loathsome  dead  around  me, 
Here  I  terror-stricken  die!" 

III. 

In  yonder  lowly  chamber, 

While  all  are  slumbering  round, 
At  the  silent  hour  of  midnight, 

A  female  form  is  found 
Before  her  father  kneeling 

In  fervent,  earnest  prayer, 
With  as  deep  a  tide  of  feeling 

As  human  heart  can  bear. 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 

For  since  the  hour  of  twilight, 

When  she  heard  the  captive's  fate, 
Until  now  —  the  lone,  dark  midnight  — 

She  hath  in  anguish  sat ; 
And  her  heart  was  with  the  captive, 

In  groans  of  sympathy ; 
She  longed  to  break  his  fetters, 

And  would  glad  have  set  him  free. 

But  the  sepulchre  was  distant 

On  a  small  and  lonely  isle, 
And  there  was  none  to  guide  her 

To  the  dark  funereal  pile. 
But  the  prayer  of  faith  prevailed, 

And  she  begged  her  Father's  arm 
To  comfort  and  to  save  him, 

And  shield  him  from  all  harm. 

An  angel  went  from  heaven, 

Entered  his  prison-door, 
And  words  of  peace  and  comfort 

To  his  anguished  spirit  bore ; 
He  loosed  his  galling  fetters. 

And  the  corpse  that  o'er  him  lay, 
And  told  him  that  relief  should  come 

As  came  the  rising  day. 

Then  he  sang  a  song  of  heaven, 

To  cheer  the  lonely  hour. 
And  the  captive's  heart  was  comforted 

By  that  heavenly  music's  power. 


HAKP  OF    THE  WILLO^VS. 

The  AngeVs  Song  in  the  Night, 

^*  Darkest  night  is  nearest  dawn, 
Joy  is  near  to  deepest  sorrow ; 
When  thy  night's  despair  is  gone, 
Hope  shall  greet  thee  on  the  morrow. 

Fiercest  storms  bring  brightest  calms  ; 

Thunderbolt,  from  dark  cloud  gleaming, 
Not  in  vain  thy  fear  alarms. 

Purer  sky  above  is  beaming. 

War  brings  peace,  and  hate  brings  love, 
Enters  life  at  death's  dark  portal ; 

Bitter  curse  shall  blessing  prove, 
Grief  shall  change  to  bliss  immortal. 

Wisely  hidden  is  the  path 

Which  thy  Father  sets  before  thee  ; 
Threatening  clouds,  portending  wrath, 

Soon  will  break  in  blessings  o'er  thee.'' 

IV. 

Ere  the  first  ray  of  morning  was  beaming. 

Ere  the  first  tuneful  note  of  the  bird, 
Sweet  hope  on  his  darkness  was  gleaming, 

And  gently  and  softly  he  heard 
A  sound  —  as  if  some  one  .  were  calling  ; 

He  listens  all  breathless  to  hear  ; 
A  voice,  —  oh,  how  welcome,  —  is  falling 

Like  melody  .sweet  on  his  ear  : 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 

"  Captive,  captive,  dost  thou  live  ? 

Has  thy  Guardian  One  been  near  thee  ? 
Speak,  I  come  to  comfort  give ; 

Not  to  fright,  but  bless  and  cheer  thee." 

^*  Yes,  I  live,"  in  accents  low, 

Feebly,  sad,  the  words  were  spoken ; 
Wilt  thou  let  me  with  thee  go  ?  "  — 
Thus  the  angel  gave  me  token. 

Near  fainting  and  gasping  he  found  him, 
Most  spent  with  his  groans  and  his  sighs 

And  eagerly  then  he  unbound  him, 
And  quickly  he  bade  him  arise. 

No  morn  e'er  so  lovely  was  beaming, 
No  birds  ever  carolled  so  sweet ; 

He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  dreaming, 
His  joy  was  so  full  and  complete. 

Soon  a  shade  is  passing  o'er  him, 

He  heaves  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  a  tear,  the  tear  of  sorrow. 

Sadly  trembles  in  his  eye  : 

For  he  feels  that  though  returning 

From  his  gloomy  prison  free, 
Yet  there  still  remains  upon  him 

The  chain  of  slavery. 
As  slowly  now,  and  thoughtfully, 

They  to  the  beach  repair. 
To  where  lay  moored  the  light  canoe, 

He  whispered  low  his  prayer  : 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

*  0  Thou,  who  in  the  silent  night 

Didst  hear  my  feeble  cry, 
And  in  the  dark  and  silent  tomb 

Didst  suffer  not  to  die  ; 
Back  to  my  house  of  bondage 

Oh,  let  me  not  be  borne, 
For  to  that  cruel  master 

I  would  not  e'er  return." 

Then  loosed  was  the  boat  from  its  moorings, 

As  quiet  they  sped  down  the  stream, 
Again  to  their  village  returning, 

It  seemed  to  him  only  a  dream  ; 
Till  his  comrade,  the  silence  then  breaking, 

Poured  forth  on  his  wondering  ear. 
These  strains  as  of  music  delightful,  — 

He  listened  astonished  to  hear  : 

"  Thou  art  no  more  a  slave  ; 
No  chains  are  on  thee  now ; 
The  blessings  of  the  free  and  brave 
Kest  ever  on  thy  brow. 

The  teacher,  good  and  kind, 

Who  gives  Jehovah's  word. 
No  rest  unto  his  soul  could  find 

When  he  thy  fate  had  heard. 

'T  is  he  thy  ransom  paid. 

He  bade  me  seek  for  thee ; 
He  bought  thee  from  the  gates  of  death, 

And  from  thy  master,  free. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Thou  art  no  more  a  slave ; 

No  chains  are  on  thee  now ; 
The  blessings  of  the  free  and  brave 

Rest  ever  on  thy  brow." 

Then  on  to  the  village  of  Wasco 

Their  bark  soon  triumphantly  sped, 
Where  many,  in  silence  awaiting, 

Beheld  him  —  the  raised  from  the  dead. 
Though  gazing  with  fear  and  with  terror, 

They  shrink  as  he  passes  along,  — 
Yet  on  to  the  house  of  the  teacher, 

There  follows  a  wondering  throng. 

V. 

Yonder  see  the  captive  ! 

Yonder  see  him  come  ! 
Captive,  faint  and  weary. 

Welcome  to  our  home  ! 
Welcome  home,  thou  captive, 

Welcome  from  the  dead. 
Free  among  the  living, 

Rest  thy  fainting  head ; 
On  this  couch  so  lowly, 

Rest — there 's  nought  to  fear ; 
There 's  no  dead  around  thee, 

There 's  no  bondage  here. 

We  will  bring  thee  water 

From  the  living  spring ; 
Drink,  and  bathe  thee  freely, 

Healing  ointment  bring, 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

Pouring  on  thy  bruises, 

On  each  bleeding  wound, 
Made  by  cruel  fetters, 

All  so  tightly  bound  ; 
Filthy  and  dishevelled 

Though  be  now  thy  hair, 
We  will  dress  and  trim  it 

With  the  nicest  care, 
And  with  fitting  garments 

Clothe  thy  naked  frame. 
Thee,  our  child  and  brother, 

Henceforth  we  will  claim ! 
Food  we  set  before  thee, 

Eat,  nor  be  afraid  ;  — 
Slave  thou  art  no  longer,  — 

We  've  thy  ransom  paid  ! 
And  thy  name  of  bondage 

We  will  cast  away, 
And  the  name  of  Ransom 

Thou  wilt  take  to-day  !  " 

All  these  words  of  welcome. 

Both  with  heart  and  tongue, 
To  the  trembling  captive 

Thus  delighted  sung 
She,  who  at  lone  midnight 

Raised  her  faith's  strong  prayer 
To  her  Heavenly  Father, 

Praying  Him  to  spare. 

VT. 

Now  the  child,  refreshed  and  strengthened, 
With  alternate  smiles  and  tears. 

All  the  tale  of  his  deliverance 
Soon  from  hi^  companions  hears. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

When  they  point  to  his  deliverer, 

Tears,  like  rain,  pour  down  his  cheeks 

And  he,  grateful,  looks  the  language 
Stronger  far  than  words  can  speak. 

While  a  group  fast  gathering  round  him, 
Filled  with  wonder  and  with  awe,  — 

Question  him  of  all  his  feelings, 
All  he  heard,  and  all  he  saw  ; 

And  he  told  them  of  his  strivings. 

In  his  prison-house  forlorn, 
Trying  to  undo  his  fetters  — 

Showed  his  wrists  and  ancles  torn ; 

Told  them  how  he  half  succeeded. 
After  he  had  suffered  long,  — 

How  lie  heard  the  angels  singing 
Unto  him  their  midnight  song  !  — 

And  they  heard  with  silent  wonder  — 
Heard  they  him,  that  listening  throng  — 

Heard  with  wonder,  and  believed  him,  — 
Then  they  mused  in  silence  long. 

VII. 

His  companions  have  departed. 
Each  one,  on  his  way  to  roam,  — 

Leaving  now  the  little  Ransom 
In  the  teacher's  quiet  home. 

Soon  he  showed  his  grateful  feelings 
In  a  thousand  pleasant  ways  ; 

Trying  how  he  might  be  useful, 
Win  his  benefactor^s  praise. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Then  they  told  him  of  the  Saviour, 
Taught  him  how  to  pray  and  read ; 

And  to  all  their  godly  lessons 
Quick  he  gave  an  earnest  heed. 

And  a  bright  and  playful  being, 
Full  of  life  and  full  of  joy, 

Was  the  happy  captive  Ransom  — 
Was  the  little  Indian  boy. 


APPEAL  FOR  THE  INDIA'N. 
I. 

I  have  finished  now  my  story 

Of  the  little  Indian  slave  ; 
But  this  boon,  before  I  leave  you, 

Reader,  I  will  humbly  crave  : 

When,  to  God  at  eve  and  morning. 
You  your  sacred  offerings  raise, 

For  the  blessings  he  has  given, 
In  your  fervent  prayer  and  praise ; 

Then  remember  Indian  Ransom, 
Now  perhaps  to  manhood  grown  ; 

Pray  that  God  will  bless  and  keep  him, 
Pray  ye  not  for  him  alone  ; 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLO^yS. 


But  for  ev'ry  tribe  and  kindred 
Of  the  suffering  Indian  race  ; 

Dear  as  thine  his  deathless  spirit, 
Though  of  olive  hue  his  face. 

Many  a  noble  soul  is  covered 

By  a  black  or  tawny  skin  ; 
View  him  as  thy  friend  and  brother, 

White  as  thou,  perchance,  within. 

II. 

Ye  who  in  the  halls  of  Congress 
Nations'  themes  and  laws  debate, 

Pity,  pity  the  poor  Indian, 

And  his  sad  and  helpless  state. 

Well  I  know  that  he  is  savage. 
And  his  foe  he  will  not  spare ; 

But  who  blames  the  lion's  fierceness. 
When  you  drive  him  from  his  lair  ? 

If  the  fiat  comes  from  Heaven, 
If  God  speaks  to  thee  the  word. 

We  will  not  so  greatly  blame  thee. 
If  thou  then  unsheathe  thy  sword. 

But  the  voice  of  sweet  forgiveness 
Thou  hast  heard  from  Calvary ;  — 

Has  he  wronged  thee? — 0  forgive  him 
As  thy  God  forgiveth  thee. 

Talk  not  of  extermination  ; 

But  oh,  spare  the  remnant,  spare ! 
Lest  thy  God,  in  judgment,  visit 

Thus  the  nation  of  thy  care. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

Give  them  place  to  dwell  among  us, 
Give  them  houses,  lands,  and  friends ; 

For  on  them,  as  well  as  others, 
God  the  rain  and  sunshine  sends. 

III. 

Ye  who  unto  God  have  given 

Of  your  goods,  with  heart  sincere, 

For  the  poor  and  suffering  Indian, — 
You 've  not  lost  them,  never  fear. 

Many  a  poor  and  shivering  creature 
Have  your  Dorcas-garments  warm 

Covered  from  the  cold  of  winter, 
Shielded  from  the  raging  storm  ; 

Many  an  almost  naked  female 

Have  in  decent  vesture  clad, 
Fitted  for  the  house  of  worship, 

Making  her  and  teacher  glad, 

While  with  serious,  calm  deportment, 
Grateful  heart,  and  tearful  eyes, 

She  hath  listened  to  the  gospel, 
Which  hath  made  her  truly  wise. 

In  the  heart  of  many  a  savage 
Where  the  Word  had  taken  root. 

Springing  up,  though  some  hath  withered, 
Oft  it  bore  delightful  fruit. 

Some  have  died  in  holy  triumph, 
Praising  God  with  latest  breath. 

That  to  them  were  sent  the  tidings 
Cheering  through  the  gates  of  death. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


25 


Numbers  large  of  orphan  children, 
From  the  tribes  both  bond  and  free, 

Has  your  bounty  fed  and  clothed,  — 
Taught  them  arts  of  industry ; 

Furnished  home,  and  book,  and  teacher, 
Taught  to  read  the  sacred  word ; 

Many  from  the  gospel  preacher 
Gladly  have  the  message  heard. 

IV. 

Many  weary,  way-worn  travellers, 
Thousands  there  were  wont  to  roam 

Far  beyond  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
Seeking  for  a  Western  home, 

Round  the  teacher's  cot  have  lingered, 
While  his  heart,  with  pity  stirred, 

Ministered  to  all  their  sufferings. 
Preached  to  them  God's  holy  word. 

Though  perchance  in  their  own  country 
They  its  peaceful  offers  spurned, 

Now  their  feet  to  Zion's  pathway 
Gladly,  willingly  have  turned. 

Live  amid  the  darkness  shining, 

Lights  in  a  benighted  land  ; 
To  the  Indian  and  the  white  man 

Lend  a  cheerful,  helping  hand. 

v. 

Oh,  the  grief,  the  heartfelt  sorrow 
Of  the  teachers  you  have  sent, 

Who  their  time,  their  strength,  their  talents, 
For  the  heathen  glad  have  spent, 

\ 

\ 


26 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


When  from  Christian  countries  roaming, 
Wicked  white  men  find  their  way 

To  the  hind  where  now  the  gospel 
First  has  shed  its  glimmering  ray. 

Oft  the  wolf  around  is  prowling 
Round  the  shepherd's  quiet  fold, 

And  the  lamb,  so  watched  and  guarded, 
In  his  clutches  seeks  to  hold. 

Hast  thou  seen  the  vulture  hover 
Round  the  traveller  on  his  way  ? 

Waiting  for  his  strength  to  fail  him. 
Pouncing  then  upon  his  prey? 

Knowst  thou  the  familiar  fable 
Of  the  wolf  and  little  lamb, 

Who  unto  the  quiet  streamlet. 
Weary,  thirsty,  panting,  came  ? 

How  for  vain  and  false  pretences, 
When  he  found  him  in  his  power. 

Slew  the  wolf  the  feeble  lambkin, 
Slew  him,  that  he  might  devour  ? 

Hast  thou  seen  the  eagle,  darting 

On  a  feebler  bird  of  prey, 
And,  by  skill  and  strength  superior. 

Basely  force  his  game  away  ? 

These  may  be  but  hidden  sayings 
Unto  those  who  will  not  hear,  — 

But  a  word  is  all-sufficient 

When  the  wise  man  lends  his  ear. 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


VI. 

Thus  to  white,  as  well  as  red  man, 
Has  your  bounty  been  applied ; 

Laying  for  their  future  welfare 
Strong  foundation,  deep  and  wide. 

While  upon  the  western  prairies 
Schools  and  colleges  arise,  — 

Churches,  laws,  and  Christian  teachings, 
Fit  to  make  the  people  wise. 

Throw  a  stone  into  the  lakelet. 
First  it  makes  a  tiny  wave ; 

On  it  widens,  farther,  farther,  — 
Soon  yon  distant  shore 't  will  lave. 

Thus  one  pure  and  single  effort 
Made  for  Grod  shall  never  cease  ; 

But  its  influence  ever  widens, 
Onward  ever  will  increase. 

And  when  long  thy  dust  hath  slumbered 

Quiet  in  the  silent  tomb, 
Shall  the  good  by  thee  accomplished. 

Then  as  living  laurels  bloom. 

VII. 

Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters, 
And  though  now  thou  seest  it  not, 

Safe  thy  Heavenly  Father  keeps  it, 
'Twill  not  be  by  him  forgot. 

Thou  in  future  days  mayst  find  it 
Springing  up,  all  fresh  and  green ; 

Bearing  fruit  a  hundred  thousand. 
From  thy  little  scanty  grain. 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 

Seed  that  long  hath  seeming  slumbered. 

Oft  shall  suddenly  arise, 
Bearing  stalk,  and  fruit,  and  flower, 

Filling  us  with  glad  surprise. 

Thus,  within  the  heart  of  savage, 
Hidden  oft  the  sacred  word,  — 

When  a-near  to  death  he  draweth^ 
In  his  soul  is  deeply  stirred. 

Then  the  spark,  now  seeming  smothered, 

Of  the  pure  celestial  fire, 
Oft  unto  a  flame  may  kindle, 

Burning  bright,  and  rising  higher ; 

Lighting,  cheering  all  his  pathway 
Through  the  shadowy  vale  of  death ; 

Telling  him  of  life  immortal, 

When  he  yields  his  fleeting  breath. 

Then  regret  not,  talk'  no  longer 
Of  your  bounty  thrown  away, 

Give  a  thousand-fold  the  more, 
God  shall  bless  you  in  your  day. 

Peace  shall  soothe  your  dying  pillow, 

As  upon  a  life  well  spent 
Ye  shall  look,  —  nor  then  will  sorrow 

That  to  Him  your  goods  were  lent. 

And  when  you  with  all  the  millions 
Stand  around  the  judgment  throne, 

Then  your  name,  among  the  ransomed, 
Christ,  the  righteous  Judge,  shall  own 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS.  29 

Saying,  "  Come  with  me,  ye  blessed, 

In  my  house  forever  be  ; 
Not  alone  to  them  ye  did  it, 

But  ye  did  it  unto  me.'' 


PARODY 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  REV.  JASON  LEE,  MISSIONARY. 

Try  again,  Christian  hero, 

Try  again,  try  again  ! 
Ere  you  yield  hope  forever. 
Try  again ; 
There  's  a  tide  in  nature's  law, 
And  some  blessed  breeze  may  blow  ; 

Try  again,  — 
Though  3^ou  meet  with  many  a  foe, 
Try  again  ! 

Dost  thou  see,  Christian  hero, 
Dost  thou  see,  dost  thou  see, 
Through  the  lapse  of  future  ages, 
Dost  thou  see  ? 
That,  upon  thy  efforts  bold. 
There  depends  a  sum  untold, 

Dost  thou  see  ? 
Many  a  precious  name  enrolled 
In  the  book  of  life,  my  brother, 
Dost  thou  see  ? 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 

In  that  lonely,  savage  land, 

Far  away,  far  away, 
With  that  little  praying  band, 
Far  away, 
We  have  tried  and  tried  again, 
In  sorrow  and  in  pain, 

Far  away,  — 
Some  dear,  precious  sonls  to  gain, 
And  like  thee  would  try  again, 
If  we  may. 

See  !  a  band  upon  our  knees ! 

Speed  away  !  speed  away  !  — 
To  pray  success  to  thee 
Speed  away  ! 
Thy  helpers  here  to  be, 
Now  we  pledge  thee  solemnly,  — 

Speed  away  ! 
Thou  art  fixed,  and  so  are  we ; 
So  God  speed  thee,  Christian  brother, 
Oregon  shall  yet  be  free  !  — 
So  God  speed ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


LAMENT 

FOR  THE  REV.  JASON  LEE. 

Thou  hast  tried,  Christian  hero, 

Thou  hast  tried  ; 
la  the  trial,  in  the  conflict, 

Thou  hast  died. 
Of  thy  sorrow,  of  the  anguish 

Of  thy  heart, 
Hath  the  praying  band  that  loved  thee 

Borne  a  part. 

But  thy  memory  !  —  shall  it  perish, 

Shall  it  die  ? 
No,  thy  virtues  we  will  cherish, 

While  we  sigh 
O'er  the  dearest  hopes  so  blighted 

By  a  stroke,  — 
O'er  the  heart  so  sadly  slighted, 

Crushed  and  broke. 

When  the  western  tribes  were  calling 

For  the  Word, 
On  the  ear  their  accents  falling, 

Many  heard. 
Who  will  bring  to  us  the  Gospel?  " 

Was  the*  cry ; 
Then  thy  noble  heart  responded. 

Here  am  I ! 


TIARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Tbou  diflsfc  leave  thy  home  and  kindred 

And  thy  rest, 
For  the  mountains  and  the  prah'ies 

Of  the  West ; 
Through  the  deserts,  o'er  the  mountain 

Urge  thy  way, 
The  glad  tidings  to  the  red  man 

To  convey. 

Where  the  footsteps  of  the  white  man 

Scarce  had  trod, 
Thou  didst  raise  a  sacred  altar 

To  thy  God  ; 
On  the  banks  of  fair  Multnomah 

Fresh  and  green. 
And  around  it,  huuibly  kneeling, 

Might  be  seen,  — 

Yes,  around  it,  humbly  kneeling, 

There  we  saw 
The  Noz  Perce,  Calapooyah, 

Iroquois. 
Of  the  bounty  of  thy  table 

They  partook, 
Wallah  wallah,  Clamath,  Shaste, 

And  Chenook- 

The  Hawaiian,  the  Tahitian, 

J  apanese. 
Highland,  English,  the  Canadian, 

And  the  Swiss ; 
French  and  Spanish,  with  the  Creole, 

x\nd  the  Creek 
Ethiopian,  and  the  Cayuse, 

Heard  thee  speak 


HARP  OF    THE  WILl.OWS. 

Of  the  Saviour,  that  from  liL^'aven 

Came  to  die, 
To  make  for  them  a  pathway 

To  the  skk. 
While  the  Catholic,  so  rigid, 

Of  old  Rome, 
At  thy  large  and  ample  altar 

Sought  a  home  ; 

With  streaming  eyes  exclaiming, 

*'  Teacher,  kind, 
Home  within  your  place  of  worship 

Let  us  find, 
For  we  've  here  no  priest  to  bless  us 

Give  us  food  ; 
Your  religion,  well  we  like  it, 

It  is  good." 

Yet  thy  hand  disdained  not  labor, 

Nor  the  toil 
That  gathered  forth  the  blessing 

From  the  soil,  — 
Not  to  pamper,  or  to  lavish, 

On  thyself ; 
Not  to  lay  up  heaps  of  treasure  — 

Of  the  pelf. 

While  thy  comrade  and  thy  kinsman, 

Worthy  thee, 
The  name  and  spirit  bearing 

Of  a  Lee,  - — 
(And  of  the  ancient  Hebrew, 

Which  he  bears,) 
In  thy  sufferings  and  thy  labors 

Meekly  shares. 

*Rev.  Daniel  Lee. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


And  the  pious,  sainted  Shepard, 

Friend  indeed 
To  all  those  who  were  around  him, 

In  their  need. 
Well  the  feeble  flock  ye  gathered, 

Knew  to  keep ; 
And  was  guide,  as  well  as  shepherd 

Of  the  sheep. 

All  the  lambs  he  gently  folded 

With  his  arm  ; 
Kept  the  weak,  the  sick,  the  wounded. 

From  all  harm. 
Teacher,  brother,  sister,  mother, 

Guide,  and  friend, 
In  his  character  and  conduct 

Sweetly  blend. 

In  mem.ory  of  your  virtues, 

Pause  I  here ; 
O'er  your  sorrows,  o'er  your  sufferings 

Drop  a  tear. 
Ye,  in  life,  were  one  in  friendship, 

One  in  heart ; 
But  in  death,  your  bodies  severed 

Far  apart. 

His,  by  flowing  fair  Multnomah 

Of  the  west ; 
In  the  realm  of  Queen  Victoria, 

Thine  doth  rest. 
Yet  your  spirits  both  shall  mingle 

In  that  home, 
Where  no  grief,  nor  wrong,  nor  sorrow 

Ever  come. 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS.  35 

Where  the  good  we  strive  to  render 

Shall  not  be 
Ever  spoken  of  as  evil. 

Carelessly ; 
Where  the  heart,  o'erburdened,  wearied. 

May  repose  — 
From  the  friends  who  would  betray  it, 

And  from  foes. 

Where  no  angry  frown  will  meet  us, 

When  opprest,  — ■ 
Deep  in  body,  soul  and  spirit, 

Seeking  rest ; 
Where  the  heart's  unuttered  yearnings, 

Sorely  tried 
For  true  sympathy  and  friendship, 

Are  supplied. 

Where  no  chilling  word  will  greet  us, 

*'  Why  hast  come, 
While  for  thee,  among  the  savage, 

There  is  room  ?  " 
But  the  cheering  word  awaits  us  : 

Come,  ye  blest. 
Welcome  to  your  Father's  mansion, 

Come  and  rest ! 

"  Thou  hast  finished,  faithful  servant, 

Good  and  true, 
Nobly  done  the  work  assigned  thee, 

Thou  art  through, 
All  thy  tears,  and  all  thy  sorrows. 

Bid  them  cease. 
And  enjoy  with  us  in  Heaven 

Rest  and  peace." 


36 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLO^VS. 


There  awhile  I  leave  your  q3irit8, 

To  renew 
Yet  the  story  of  your  labors,  — 

Or  pursue 
Still  awhile  the  weary  pathway 

Which  ye  trod, 
In  your  labors  for  the  red  man, 

And  for  God. 


MINOT'S  EOCK  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

"  It  stands  upon  nine  wrought-iron  pillars,  sunk  five 
feet  into  the  rock,  which,  though  only  twenty  feet  across, 
has  destroyed  more  ships  than  any  other  single  ledge 
upon  our  coast." 

As  o'er  the  broad  Atlantic  wandering, 

Near  to  its  rock-bound  coast  I  drew, 
Delighted  on  the  scenery  pondering, 

There  rose  upon  my  wondering  view 
A  dome,  on  iron  pillars  resting. 

Firmly  inserted  in  the  rock,  — 
The  storms  and  billows  nobly  breasting, 

Though  trembling  oft  beneath  their  shock. 

Majestic  o'er  the  billows  towering, 

A  giant-sentinel  it  seemed, 
And  midst  the  storm  and  tempest  lowerirg. 

Calmly  its  light  on  ocean  gleamed ! 
That  light  hath  many  an  ocean-ranger 

Warned  of  the  rocks  and  ruin  near, 
And  bade  him  timely  flee  the  danger, 

And  reach  the  port  of  safety  clear. 


HARP  OF    THE  VriLLOWS. 


37 


That  bcacon-firc  some  hand  is  lighting, 

Those  tlangcM's  some  strong  heart  must  bravo, 
Who  there,  amid  these  scenes  affrighting, 

Alone  may  meet  a  watery  grave. 
Bat  who  would  fix  his  lonely  dwelling 

In  such  a  place  of  wild  alarm, 
Where  whirls  and  angry  waves  are  swelling?  — 

Fit  home  for  genii  of  the  storm  ! 

And  on  those  rocks  of  greater  danger, 

Upon  the  coast  of  life's  rough  sea, 
Where  many  a  heedless,  wandering  ranger 

Hath  met  a  fearful  destiny, — 
Oh,  who  shall  have  the  noble  daring 

To  light  the  beacon-fires  of  truth, — 
His  bosom  to  the  tempest  baring, 

To  save  from  ruin  age  and  youth  ? 

While  thus  I  mused,  a  sleep  came  o'er  me, 

And  in  my  dream,  methought  there  stood 
A  spirit-form  —  it  passed  before  me, 

And  thus  its  w^ords  I  understood  : 
Mortal,  whenever  duty  calls  thee, 

Upon  the  rock  or  desert  shore, 
Thou  'rt  safe  ;  no  hLirm  can  e'er  befall  thee  ; 

Thy  God  is  there  —  \\hat  need'st  thou  more  ? 

Go  light  the  fires  on  life's  daik  ocean, 

Nor  fear,  though  lone  thy  dwelling  be  ; 
For  in  each  scene  of  dread  connnotion, 

Thy  God  shall  ever  be  with  thee ; 
And  at  the  post  of  duty  falling, 

Glorious,  not  sad  thy  fall  shall  be, 
For  others,  oft  thy  deeds  recalling. 

Shall  light  the  beacon  after  thee  !  " 


38  HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


MINOT'S  ROCK  LIGHT-HOUSE;^ 
OR,  THE  martyrs'  grave. 

I  passed  by  the  spot  where  the  light-house  had  stood, 

As  a  giant- watcher  o'er  the  flood, 

With  its  beacon-light  brightly  beaming  there, 

To  tell  of  the  hidden  danger  near. 

But  alas !  all  the  signs  I  there  could  trace 

Of  the  watchers'  lonely  dwelling-place, 

Were  the  broken  shafts,  that  rose  through  the  wave. 

To  mark  the  place  of  the  martyrs'  grave  ! 

O  sad  is  the  tale  those  pillars  tell 

Of  the  fate  that  the  watchers  there  befell ; 

No  marble  pile  may  such  records  show. 

Or  more  plainly  speak  of  the  heart's  deep  woe. 


After  it  was  swept  away. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


39 


Thou  Spirit  that  guardest  the  mighty  deep, 
And  thy  nightly  watch  o'er  the  sailor  dost  keep, 
Tell  me,  0  tell,  how  the  true  and  the  brave 
In  that  sad,  dark  hour  met  their  watery  grave. 

They  had  watched  through  many  a  weary  night, 
With  their  beacon  shining  clear  and  bright ; 
'Mid  the  tempest's  howl  and  the  billows'  roar, 
They  had  guided  thousands  safe  to  the  shore  ; 
Oh,  sank  not  their  hearts  in  that  fearful  hour 
When  they  felt  the  force  of  the  tempest's  power  — 
And  their  dome  the  fearful  tokens  gave 
That  alone  they  must  meet  their  ocean-grave  ? 

"  0  ask  not,  mortal,  how  they  died  ;  — 
Though  hurried  deep  'neath  the  whelming  tide, 
They  were  found,  to  the  last,  at  duty's  post,  — 
Let  not  their  example  to  thee  be  lost. 
There  are  rocks  on  life's  tempestuous  sea, 
Where  the  friendly  beacon  must  lighted  be  ; 
Raise  it  bright  and  clear  o'er  the  threatening  wave, 
And  fear  thou  not  the  martyr's  grave  !  " 


MINOT'S  LIGHT  SHIP. 

As  I  stood  on  the  bank  'neath  a  wide  spreading 
willow, 

Where  old  Massachusetts  Atlantic  doth  lave, 
A  vessel  I  saw  proudly  launched  on  the  billow, 
'Mid  the  shouts  of  the  people  she  greeted  the 
wave. 


40 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Her  timbers  were  firm  and  well  jointed  together, 
Her  helm  would  steer  true  'mid  the  roughest  of 
weather, 

Yet  she  skimmed  o'er  the  ocean  as  light  as  a  feather, 
And  many  the  hearts  that  rejoiced  in  the  sight. 

Time  passed,  and  the  autumn  gales  round  me  were 
sighing 

With  thousands  borne  on  by  the  favoring  wind, 
I  passed  where  a  vessel  at  anchor  was  lying, 

And  yet  in  my  spirit  I  lingered  behind. 
With  others,  though  bound  to  the  shrine  of  devotion, 
My  heart  it  was  filled  with  a  saddened  emotion. 
As  I  thought  on  that  lonely  fair  gem  of  the  ocean 

Once  so  buoyant  and  free,  now  so  sad  in  its  plight. 

Ah,  why  noble  ship,  why  so  idly  art  lying? 

Come  weigh  now  thy  anchor,  unfurling  thy  sail, 
Through  the  depths  of  the  ocean  thy  helm  should  be 
plying, 

Thy  canvas  be  spread  to  the  favoring  gale, 
Now  rouse  thee,  and  put  all  thy  timbers  in  motion. 
Go  forth  with  thy  mates,  thou  fair  gem  of  the  ocean. 
'Twas  thus  I  exclaimed  with  enkindled  emotion. 

When  a  voice  sad  and  sorrowful  greeted  my  ear. 

"  And  well   mayest  thou  pity  my  fate,  0  thou 
stranger, 

Held  fast  by  my  anchor,  my  sails  tightly  furled ; 
0  had  I  the  power  I  would  brave  every  danger. 
And  glad  would  be  urging  my  way  round  the 
world. 

Give,  give  me  my  wings  and  I'll  quickly  be  flying, 
O'er  the  fields  of  the  ocean  will  swiftly  be  hieing. 
So  weary,  so  weary  at  anchor  thus  lying 

With  my  comrades  around  me  so  active,  so  gay. 


IIAKP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


41 


"  Lo,  bound  with  rich  freight  to  the  isles  of  the  ocean, 
See  gliding  before  me  yon  fair  Morning  Star  ; 

To  raise  'mid  their  darkness  the  light  of  devotion, 
And  some  to  the  nations  in  sorrow  afar. 

In  each  port  of  the  earth  shall  their  pennons  bo 
waving, 

All  waters  of  ocean  their  keels  shall  be  laving, 
Some   the  stormy  south  capes  or  the  Arctic  be 
braving, 

And  others  cast  anchor  on  Palestine's  shore." 

Again  on  my  ear  the  faint  echo  seemed  falling 
Of  a  voice  I  had  long  ago  heard  in  my  sleep  — 

So  sweetly,  so  gently,  yet  earnestly  calhng, 

'Twas  the  voice  of  the  angel  that  guarded  the 
deep,  — 

Hold,  mortal,  nor  deem  who  abroad  may  be  roving. 
Or  'mid  life's  busy  scenes  may  be  actively  moving, 
Alone  are  their  time  or  their  talents  improving. 

For  those  truly  serve  who  but  stand  still  and 
wait." 

Though  vainly  and  useless  to  thee,  O  thou  stranger. 
The  Light  Ship  seems  idly  to  rest  on  the  wave. 
She  holdeth  the  beacon  that  warneth  of  danger, 
She  saveth  her  thousands  from  death  and  the 
grave. 

Wliile  some  the  rough  dangers  of  ocean  are  daring, 
And  abroad  in  the  commerce  of  nations  are  sharing 
Her  pai't  she  with  them  ever  nobly  is  bearing, 

And  she  truly  doth  serve,  though  she  seems  but 
to  wait.'* 


42 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


And  thou  who  perchance  some  great  work  wouldst  be 
doing, 

The  humblest  of  callings  must  meekly  fulfil, 
Wbile  onward  the  pathway  of  duty  pursuing, 

Must  learn  well  the  art  and  the  time  to  stand  still. 
If  love  to  thy  God  in  thy  heart  deep  is  burning, 
And  thine  eye  to  thy  Master  thou  ever  art  turning, 
This  lesson  thou  patient  wilt  need  to  be  learning, 

That  often  to  do,  is  to  suffer ^nd  wait." 

How  oft  while  'mid  seens  of  this  life  I've  been 
pressing. 

And  barriers  around  me  have  hedged  up  my  way, 
When  my  heart  would  go  forth  breathing  mercy  and 
blessing 

Like  a  vessel  at  anchor  compelled  still  to  stay, 
Have  I  thought  of  the  time  that  I  stood  'neath  the 
willow, 

And  the  voice  of  the  angel  that  came  o'er  the  billow, 
Whispering  soft  in  my  ear  as  I  lay  on  my  pillow,  — 
"  AH  those  truly  serve  who  but  stand  still  and 
wait." 

Then  three  cheers  for  the  Light  Ship  at  anchor  though 
lying. 

And  blessings  and  prayers  for  her  officers  brave  ; 

Ye  wearily  watch  while  your  comrades  are  flying. 
Ye  are  guarding  the  beacon  our  brothers  to  save. 
Watch  on,  while  your  mates  o'er  the  ocean  are 
bounding. 

Watch  on  though  mid  tempests  and  thunders  re- 
sounding ; 

Watch  on,  —  shed  your  light  o'er  the  darkness  sur- 
rounding, 

God  guard  the  Light  Boat  as  she  floats  on  the  wave. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


GOLD  !  GOLD  !  GOLD ! 

Away  !  away  !  to  the  land  of  gold  ! 

We  will  all  enlist  with  a  daring  bold, 

We  will  fill  up  our  coffers  with  wealth  untold, 

To  the  favored  land  we  go  ! 
Now  farewell  care  and  foreboding  fears, 
We  will  bid  adieu  to  sorrow  and  tears, 
We  will  lay  up  treasure  for  many  years, 

So  on  to  San  Francisco  ! 

California's  mines  we  will  well  explore, 
We  will  search  all  her  hills  and  valleys  o'er, 
In  the  clefts  of  the  rocks  by  the  ocean  shore 

We  will  fearlessly  wend  our  way  ; 
We  will  carefully  trace  all  her  winding  streams, 
And  each  precious  grain  will  grasp  as  it  gleams, 
From  the  moment  the  first  ray  of  morning  beams, 

To  the  darkening  close  of  day  ! 

Alas  !  alas !  for  your  joyous  schemes  ! 
They  are  all  but  empty  and  idle  themes, 
Deceitful  visions  and  golden  dreams, 

To  bewilder  and  lead  estray  ; 
For  there's  naught  but  labor  and  toil  and  care. 
With  sad  disappointment  and  sorrow  and  fear, 
Thick  strown  in  the  pathway  for  each  one  to  share 

Who  for  riches  would  hasten  away  ! 

Ye  may  fill  your  coffers  with  wealth  untold, 
Ye  map  heap  like  the  dust  your  shining  gold. 
In  the  book  of  fame  have  your  names  enrolled, 

But,  alas  I  they  cannot  buy 
One  moment's  peace  for  the  guilty  breast, 
Nor  give  to  the  weary  spirit  rest, 
Nor  supply  for  the  heart  with  grief  oppressed, 

The  tear  of  sympathy. 


44 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


Yet  perchance  with  this  golden  mania  fired^ 
Thou  art  still  with  a  noble  aim  inspired, 
And  dost  purpose  in  generous  acts  untired 

Thy  spoils  of  wealth  to  spend ; 
To  visit  the  homes  of  wretchedness, 
To  aid  the  widow  and  fatherless, 
And  all  that  need  with  comforts  to  bless, 

And  become  the  poor  man's  friend  ! 

But  gold  hath  a  fearful  power  to  freeze 
The  heart's  most  tender  sympathies, 
And  once  possessed  of  its  treasuries, 

Thy  aim  thou  mayst  forget. 
Plant  not  in  thy  heart  that  bitter  root,  — 
The  love  of  money  —  whence  many  a  shoot 
Of  evil  will  spring,  to  bring  forth  the  fruit 

Of  bitterness  and  regret. 

Oh,  it  is  not  the  gold  that  ye  need,  to  fill 
The  aching  void  which  your  spirits  feel ; 
Possessed  of  this  treasure,  in.satiate  still 

Will  be  the  immortal  mind  ;  — 
There's  a  heavenly  mine  of  wealth  untold. 
More  precious  far  than  the  choicest  gold  — 
True  wisdom,  that  cometh  to  young  and  to  old. 

And  each  one  who  seeketh  may  find. 

Oh  come,  then,  enlist,  and  this  prize  obtain  ; 
Here  no  one  that  searcheth  will  searcli  in  vain. 
But  the  only  true  riches  will  surely  gain, 

That  never  will  fade  away  ; 
'Twill  ever  remain  unsullied  and  pure, 
While  endless  ages  shall  endure  ; 
Oh,  make  then  this  heavenly  treasure  sure 

Enlist  ye  without  delay. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


45 


It  will  fill  the  void  of  your  aching  breast, 
Will  soothe  the  heart  with  grief  opprest, 
And  give  to  the  weary  spirit  rest,  — 

The  fear  of  death  remove  ; 
'Twill  give  you  all  in  this  life  that  you  need, 
And  when  from  its  toils  your  spirit  is  freed, 
'Twill  give  you  a  heaven  of  bliss  indeed, 

At  God's  right  hand  above. 


-BLESSED  IS  HE  THAT  CONSIDEEETH 
THE  POOR." 

A  thousand  blessings  on  your  heads 

When  plenty  crowns  your  store, 
If  minding  those  that  lack  for  bread, 

You  seek  the  suffering  poor ; 
If  not  in  Fame's  fair  temple 

Your  name  may  graven  be, 
'Twill  live  in  many  a  thankful  heart 

With  blessed  memory. 

Oh,  little  know  ye,  or  can  know, 

Whom  plenty  always  fills, 
The  sorrow,  or  the  depth  of  woe, 

That  poverty  reveals ; 
Nor  can  ye  measure  well  the  joy 

Or  gladness  ye  impart, 
As  ye  your  time  and  goods  employ 

To  cheer  the  poor  man's  heart. 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 

Here's  one,  perchance,  who  long  has  borne, 

In  suffering  silence  on, 
The  weight  of  sickness,  pain  and  want,  — 

His  strength  and  hope  are  gone ; 
He  feels  there's  none  that  cares  for  him  ; 

But  when  your  gifts  arrive, 
His  wants  relieved  —  his  heart  is  cheered, 

His  strength  and  hope  revive. 

Ye  seek  the  lonely  widow's  cot ; 

Of  guide  and  friend  bereft, 
How  sad  and  cheerless  is  her  lot, 

With  helpless  orphans  left ! 
With  earnest  heart  and  tearful  eye, 

She  plies  her  utmost  skill, 
And  yet  she  fails  to  meet  their  wants,  — 

Grief  doth  her  spirit  fill. 

Oh,  could  ye  only  read  the  joy. 

The  heart-felt  thankfulness 
That  dwells  within  that  widow's  heart 

As  ye  her  orphans  bless, 
'Twould  nerve  your  hearts  for  nobler  deeds, 

'T would  well  your  care  repay, 
As  scattering  blessings  round  your  path. 

Ye  urge  your  onward  way. 

And  here  is  one  whom  God  has  called 

To  labor  in  his  field. 
Whose  time  and  strength  for  other's  good 

He  cheerfully  would  yield  ; 
But  poverty  at  every  step 

Impedes  his  wonted  course, 
He  strives  to  labor  on  in  hope. 

Though  with  an  empty  purse. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


He  looks  abroad  upon  the  world, 

And  at  that  earnest  view, 
He  sees  the  harvest  field  is  ripe, 

The  laborers  are  few. 
He  longs  to  enter  on  the  work 

With  all  his  heart  and  soul, 
But  feels  the  prospect  is  but  dark 

'Neath  poverty's  control. 

Not  for  himself  the  anxious  thought. 

The  falling  tear  is  shed, 
But  for  those  helpless  ones  that  look 

To  him  for  daily  bread ; 
Sorrow  and  want,  and  toil  and  pain, 

Himself  might  well  endure,  — 
Those  helpless  ones  from  suffering 

He  gladly  would  secure. 

Just  at  that  hour  when  hope  is  gone, 

And  he  with  anguish  feels 
His  work  must  e'er  remain  undone, 

Kind  Providence  reveals 
A  friendly  hand,  that  needed  aid 

And  present  want  supplies ; 
He  lifts  his  heart  with  gratitude, 

And  then  with  tearful  eyes. 

Again  he  nerves  him  for  the  work, 

And  on  he  gladly  runs. 
Becomes  a  bright  and  shining  light 

To  cheer  benighted  ones. 
That  friendly  hand  which  needed  aid 

So  timely  did  impart, 
In  all  the  good  that  he  hath  done, 

Hath  surely  borne  a  part. 


48 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


Then  cease  ye  not  your  works  of  love, 

But  seek  the  needy  still ; 
Rich  blessings  on  your  heads  shall  rest, 

From  Him  your  stores  who  fills ; 
And  when  the  day  of  reckoning  comes, 

Ye  then  shall  hear  the  sound  — 
"Ye  did  it  unto  me  !  "  —  and  then 

Shall  your  reward  be  found ! 


LINES 

ON  READING  BURRITT's  APPEAL  FOR  A  SHIP-OF-WAR 
TO  CONVEY  DELEGATES  TO  THE  "  WORLD's  PEACE 
CONVENTION." 

Thy  vessels,  0  America  ! 

Are  borne  on  numerous  seas ; 
Thy  sails  are  seen  in  every  port. 

Unfurled  to  catch  the  breeze  ; 
Thy  banner  waves  where'er  the  helm 

Of  mariner  hath  plied. 
And  on  the  breast  of  many  a  wave 

Thy  war-ships  proudly  ride  ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


In  each  pursuit  that  e'er  engaged 

The  busy  heart  of  man, 
Thy  seamen  bold  their  way  have  urged,  — 

A  noble,  hardy  clan,  — 
Amid  the  icebergs  of  the  north, 

And  through  the  tropics  borne, 
And  round  the  dreary,  stormy  capes 

Of  Good  Hope  and  the  Horn  ! 

With  Europe,  and  with  Asia's  ports, 

Thou  hast  a  commerce  free. 
And  in  thine  arms  encirclest 

The  isles  of  every  sea ;  — 
I  cannot  speak  of  Afric's  name. 

That  wronged  and  injured  land. 
Without  a  burning  blush  of  shame !  — 

Without  a  trembling  hand  ! 

And  thou  hast  lent  thy  share  of  aid 

In  Science'  high  pursuit. 
Around  the  world  thy  tour  hast  made. 

And  reaped  abundant  fruit ; 
And  even  upon  the  sacred  shore 

Of  loved  Palestina, 
Thou  now  her  places  dost  explore, 

Of  hallowed  memory.^ 

0  say,  if  on  those  sacred  plains 

No  echo  now  ye  hear 
Of  those  delightful  heavenly  strains 

That  met  the  shepherds'  ear, 

*  Referring:  to  an  exploring  expedition  then  making 
searches  in  Palestine. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 

As  guided  by  the  Eastern  Star 
They  onward  urged  their  way, 
.  And  hastened  to  the  lowly  spot 
Where  the  infant  Saviour  lay  ? 

Do  not  those  heavenly  accents  sweet, 

Of  music  linger  still 
Upon  that  dear  and  lovely  spot 

By  Bethlehema's  hill  — 
"  Grood-will  henceforth  to  men  be  breathed, 

And  to  the  earth  be  peace." 
Oh,  catch  the  sound,  nor  let  it  die 

Till  war's  dominion  cease. 

Upon  that  mount  where  Jesus  spake 

To  listening  multitudes, 
And  in  their  willing  ears  proclaimed 

Those  high  beautitudes, 
Say,  hear  ye  not  the  echo  still  ?  — 

"  Blest  is  the  man  of  peace  — 
Return  to  each  one  good  for  for  ill  — 

Love,  love  your  enemies." 

And  deeper  still  the  echo  hear, 

While  ye  with  sacred  awe, 
Approach  the  revered  Gethsemane, 

And  near  to  Calvary  draw ! 
There,  'mid  the  groans  and  deep  distress 

That  rung  a  Saviour's  heart, 
Oh,  hear  ye  not  a  thrilling  sound 

To  make  the  warrior  start  ? 

Put  up  thy  sword  !  put  up  thy  sword  !  " 

That  mandate  dost  thou  hear 
As  Peter  there  his  blade  unsheathed, 
And  smote  the  servant's  ear  !  — 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


And  listen  to  those  warning  words : 

"  All  they  that  take  the  sword, 
And  make  its  bloody  work  their  choice, 
Shall  perish  by  the  sword." 

Hear'st  thou  not  still  on  Calvary's  mount. 

That  dying  sound,  "  Forgive  ?  " 
May  it  henceforth  within  thy  heart 

Forever,  ever  live  ! 
And  while  the  Christian  name  is  thine. 

His  blest  example  love, 
And  to  a  title  so  divine, 

Thy  right  by  mercy  prove. 

Too  many  a  battle-field  has  seen 

Thy  blood-bought  victories ; 
Full  many  a  widow's  tears  are  thine, 

Full  many  an  orphan's  cries  ;  — 


52 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


Then  send  one  ship  across  the  wave, 

The  demon  War  to  slay  ; 
The  nations  of  the  earth  to  save 

From  his  dark,  fearful  sway  ! 

Let  not  the  sound  of  musketry. 

Or  cannon  loud,  be  heard, 
But  take  ye  for  your  weapons  strong 

The  Spirit's  mighty  sword  ! 
And  bear  ye  not  a  warlike  name, 

But  one  of  Peace  "  and  ^'  Love,''  — 
Messiah's  banner  o'er  you  wave, 

Its  emblem  be  the    Dove  !  " 


LINES 

ON     READING    THE     APPOINTMENT    OF    THE  FIRST 
world's  peace  CONVENTION." 

When  shall  the  reign  of  peace, 

By  prophets  long  foretold, 
Throughout  the  world  its  victory  trace. 
In  every  clime  and  every  place. 

And  all  the  earth  enfold? — 
Though  ruin  seemeth  nigh. 

And  war  and  tumult  reign  ; 
Though  storm  and  tempest  sweep  the  sky. 

And  desolate  the  plain,  — 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 

Not  ever  shall  the  storm 

And  tempest  rage  on  high,  — 
Behold  !  amidst  the  dread  alarm, 
The  bow  of  promise,  bright  and  calm, 

Appears,  to  glad  the  eye ! 
Soon  shall  earth's  raging  cease  — 

Its  threatening  waves  subside  ; 
And  all  its  nations,  hushed  to  peace, 
In  mutual  love  henceforth  increase,  — 

In  harmony  abide. 

See  !  the  glad  dawn  appears  ! 

Light  on  the  morning  hills  ! 
The  rising  sun  in  radiance  nears, 
To  dissipate  our  gloomy  fears,  — 

Each  heart  with  gladness  fills  ; 
That  glorious  time  draws  near, 

Exult  we  in  the  thought ! 
The  many  signs  which  now  appear 

Are  all  with  meaning  fraught. 

Glad  are  our  waiting  eyes, 

These  long- wished  signs  to  see, 
And  while  we  view  in  yonder  skies 
The  star  of  Bethlehem  arise, 

Which  tells  that  war  must  flee  — 
"  Good-will  and  peace  to  men 

Be  sung  anew  on  earth, 
By  holy  angels  yet  again, 

With  those  of  mortal  birth ! 

The  blessed  sound  prolong. 
One  shout  of  victory  raise, 

From  every  tribe  and  every  tongue, 
Of  love,  and  joy,  and  praise ; 


54 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


All  heaven  and  earth  shall  ring 
With  strains  that  ne'er  shall  cease. 

And  hail  as  Universal  King, 
Messiah  —  Prince  of  Peace ! 


SEBASTOPOL. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

"  Sebastopol  is  taken  !  " 

"  Sebastopol  is  taken  !  " 
What  joy,  what  wonder,  and  what  glad  surprise 

Are  spread  through  every  nation ; 

What  pride  and  exultation 
Are  felt  by  Turkey  and  her  brave  allies  ! 

The  Northern  Bear  "  is  humbled, 
His  power  will  soon  be  crumbled ; 

Proud  Russia  now  is  conquered  in  the  fight ; 
Before  their  foes  they  're  bending. 
The  Crescent  high  ascending, 

Adorned  by  the    Rose  "  and  "  Flower  of  Light." 

Loud  let  the  cannon  thunder, 

Listen  with  joy  and  wonder, 
While  chiming  bells  peal  forth  with  all  their  might. 

Rejoice  ye,  all  ye  people. 

Let  minaret,  tower  and  steeple. 
And  every  dwelling  gleam  with  cheerful  light. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Around  each  hamlet  straying, 
Bright  bands  of  music  playing, 

Forth  let  the  strains  in  joyful  numbers  flow, 
While  every  heart  rejoices. 
And  forth  from  unnumbered  voices 

Triumphant  shouts  of  victory  loudly  go. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Sebastopol  is  taken  ! 

Ah !  never  more  shall  waken 
The  many  thousands  in  the  siege  laid  low  ; 

No  favored  ones  are  singled, 

But  in  the  dust  are  mingled 
Alike  the  invader  and  invading  foe. 

How  many  wounded  languish, 
What  sorrow  and  what  anguish ! 

What  floods  of  tears,  what  seas  of  groans  and 
From  sisters,  daughters,  mothers, 
From  fathers,  sons,  and  brothers, 

Widows  and  orphans,  on  the  ear  arise  ! 

Were  it  our  own  loved  city, 
What  sighs,  what  grief  and  pity 

Would  from  the  heart  of  every  freeman  go  ! 
What  deep  commiseration. 
Throughout  the  saddened  nation. 

What  bitter  feeling  to  the  invading  foe  ! 

Foe !  —  Is  not  each  our  brother  ? 

Should  we  not  help  each  other 
Kindly,  to  bear  the  varied  ills  of  life  ? 

Oh,  when  will  every  nation, 

Throughout  the  wide  creation. 
Forever  cease  their  war  and  endless  strife  ! 


56  HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 

THIRD  VOICE. 

Sebastopol  is  taken  ! 

What  thoughts  these  words  awaken, 
What  varied  feelings  in  the  bosom  rise  ! 

Though  war  seems  heavy-fingered, 

And  long  the  siege  has  lingered, 
It  seems  at  last  to  take  us  by  surprise  ! 

Sebastopol  is  taken, 

And  all  the  earth  is  shaken 
With  fear  and  wonder  at  what  next  may  rise  ! 

Thick  clouds  that  gather  o'er  us 

Proclaim  that  just  before  us 
Some  great  event  in  the  dark  future  lies. 

Sebastopol  is  taken  ! 

What  hero's  name  shall  waken 

Applause  and  wonder  in  the  future  age, 
Whose  deeds  of  fame  and  glory- 
Shall  live  in  endless  story, 

And  dwell  with  honor  on  the  historic  page  ? 

Oft,  of  the  brave  six  hundred, 

Who  met,  while  cannon  thundered 
Their  fate  undaunted,  shall  be  told  the  tale,  — 

"But  wreathed  with  purest  glory, 

Shall  live  in  future  story. 
The  name  —  the  deeds  of  Florence  Nightingale  ! 

Oh,  England's  dearest  daughter  ! 

As  pool  of  purest  water, 
Or  green  oasis  on  the  desert  sand  ; 

Like  views  from  bright  Elysium, 

So  to  a  world's  glad  vision. 
Is  sight  of  thee  and  thy  devoted  band. 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


57 


Oh,  England's  blessed  daughter  ! 

'Mid  carnage  and  'mid  slaughter, 
Thy  way  thou  foundest  to  the  dreadful  field ! 

Though  near  the  stormy  battle, 

Heeded  not  cannon's  rattle, 
But  comfort  to  the  wounded  thou  didst  yield  ! 

And  thou,  the  fair  Victoria 

Regina,  excelsae  gloriae, 
Oh,  gild  with  loftier  deeds  thy  fairest  reign  ! 

With  pure  white  banner  flying, 

Go  forth  to  victory,  crying  — 
"  Peace !  peace  on  earth  —  let  War  himself  be  slain  ! " 

In  whitest  vesture  shining, 

With  olive-leaves  entwining, 
White  banners  waving  with  the  Dove  of  Peace, 

New  sprinkled  at  God's  altar. 

Go  forth  —  and  never  falter, 
Till  through  the  earth  War's  dark  dominion  cease  ! 

And  with  thy  sisters  pleading,  — 

Thy  help  so  greatly  needing,  — 
That  yonder  dwell,  in  fair  Columbia's  land, 

Methinks  I  hear  thee  singing. 

While  earth  and  sea  are  ringing 
Heroic  strains  from  thee  and  all  thy  band  : 

**  Eouse,  ye  slumbering  millions 

Of  America ! 
Arm  ye  for  the  battle  ! 

Death  or  victory ! 
Nations  loud  are  calling, 

Sisters,  for  our  aid  ; 
Towns  and  cities  falling, 

Homes  in  ashes  laid. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 

Pestilence  and  famine,  i 

True,  have  lent  their  aid, 
But  a  foe  far  mightier 
Doth  our  lands  invade. 
War,  that  scourge  of  nations,  — 

Long  and  dark  his  reign,  — 
Though  a  giant  mighty, 
Shall  himself  be  slain. 

^'  Listen,  0  Columbia  !  — 

Sweet  that  peaceful  name,  — 
Gird  thee  for  the  contest, 

Let  the  foe  be  slain,  — 
But  the  weights  that  hold  thee 

Thou  must  lay  aside, 
And  thy  loins  be  girded 

Ere  the  contest  tried. 

"  First,  thy  millions  groaning 

In  their  slavery, 
'Neath  thy  lashes  moaning,  — 

Set,  oh,  set  them  free  ! 
Wash  thy  robes  so  crimsoned 

With  the  red  man's  blood, 
And  with  spirit  chastened, 

Turn  unto  thy  God. 

"  Let  us  with  repenting 

For  our  youthful  crimes, 
And  the  ripened  hardness 

Of  these  later  times. 
Take  awhile  our  station, 

Bowed  in  humble  prayer, 
Near  the  cross  of  Jesus, 

Whose  blest  name  we  bear. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Send  no  more  our  servants 

Forth  to  preach  the  word, 
In  one  hand  the  Bible, 

One  to  clasp  the  sword  ! 
Not  with  carnal  weapons 

Be  the  victory  won. 
But  with  gospel  armor, 

Firmly  girded  on. 

Take  us  for  our  mottoes, 
Sayings  such  as  these  : 
^  Father,  oh,  forgive  them  !  ' 
'  Love  your  enemies  I ' 
Graved  in  golden  splendor, 

On  our  front  to  view, 
■  Do  ye  unto  others 

As  ye 'd  have  them  do  to  you  ! ' 

These  golden  mottoes  keeping. 
Though  going  forth  with  weeping, 

Ye  shall  return  with  laurels  richly  crowned  ; 
Nations  shall  lift  their  voices, 
While  earth  and  heaven  rejoices. 

Angels  shall  tune  their  harps  to  swell  the  sound 

The  reign  of  war  is  ended, 

By  all  its  ills  attended, 
And  o'er  the  earth  forevermore  shall  cease. 

All  glory,  honor,  power. 

Shall  ever  from  this  hour 
Be  given  to  the  blessed  Prince  of  Peace.'' 


60 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


Thus  heard  I  music  pealing, 
Across  the  water  stealing, 
From  humble  harp  on  fair  Columbia's  hill ! 
And  England's  daughters  listened, 
Tears  in  their  bright  eyes  glistened  — 
Will  they  this  glorious  vision  e'er  fulfil  ? 


TO  THE  HUNGARIAN  HEROINE, 

A  LADY  WHO  HAD  FOUGHT  IN  BATTLE. 

A  welcome  we  give  thee,  O  Hungary's  daughter, 
A  welcome  sincere  to  the  land  of  the  free ; 

An  exile  from  home  o'er  Atlantic's  wide  water, 
We  pity  thy  country,  we  sorrow  for  thee. 

But  say,  for  thy  brow  shall  our  fingers  be  wreathing 
Those  laurels  the  hero  hath  gloried  to  bear  ? 

Thy  praise  shall  our  lips  in  those  accents  be  breathing 
The  warrior's  minstrel  pours  forth  on  the  ear  ? 

With  the  lays  of  a  Hemans,  O  friend,  shall  we  greet 
thee, 

And  chant  in  her  songs  of  a  patriot's  fame  ? 
In  the  list  of  her  heroes  on  high  shall  we  set  thee  ? 
With  glory  and  honor  encircle  thy  name  ? 

Ah  no !   though   from  sorrow,   and  conflict,  and 
danger, 

A  refuge  thou  hast  in  the  land  of  the  free, 
Not  thus  can  her  daughter  receive  thee,  fair  stranger. 
Though  her  heart  beat  with  pity  and  sorrow  for 
thee. 


HARP  OP  THE  WILLOWS.  61 


presses 


Alas!  that  the  hand  which  in  friendship  she 
Should  wear  the  dark  stairi  jif     ^"  '^ 


Yes,  thol  pveas  fl-vers    He-^^^^^  lay  the 

Th<.  li  sheet  of  thin  ooi'^  covering  them  i 

\  flowers  caretuUy  on  p  ttiug  d 

with  another  fjl\«*Vht  pressure.  Some- 
More  fitl  the  wi^ole  ««der  shgh  P      ^l^iej-,  ami 
The  J  times,  ^vhen  t  eflovve         .^^^.^e,  she  , 

'  contain  a  go^i^  ^^^""^ottou  the  nest  day, 
puts  them  in  fresh  CO  7^.^^^^.^, 

knd  after  that  Ooes  11  ^^^^  ^^^^^ 

But  in  Pr'''?ron  need  not  be  changed 
flowers,  the  cfto"  f  ^,,e„ed  until  tlie 
.     at  all,  and  ^ot  «v«n  open  ^^^.^^^  ] 

flowers  _»re  Pi'^^^^.^^^i^^a'am's  pressed 
the-    Little    Schof  ma  y 
Yea,  stroni  flowers  ha-l  a  s«"'"  =j  ones  prettily 

!  pared,  in    othei  J,  y  een  leaves  an<i  ■ 
But  should   Schoolma'am.presse»  green  l^e  ^^^^.^^^ 

Their  he  ribbon-grass  inj'jj^^f '  ^nd  she  told  the 
1  their  color  pertectlj ,  ana  ^^^^^^^ 
Remember  t  X  ot' these  doable  cotton 

SerVt^S"-'  ^^,aTer'n  bltv^eenlhe 
Was  stren  sheet  of  blottmg-papei  in  . 

Isets.   Sometimes  she  lays  . 
between  ]^l%f^'^^\Lestk\uA.---Jaf- 


60  HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 

•    nrAVoostev;  ^'^'l^  the  B-on.  i 


N4i 


roft 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


61 


Alas!  that  the  hand  which  in  friendship  she  presses 
Should  wear  the  dark  stain  of  a  brother's  warm 
blood ! 

'T  were  better  employed  to  relieve  his  distresses, 
And  lead  him,  though  erring,  in  pity  to  God. 

Yes,  though  we  deplore  thy  forsaken  condition, 
The  heart  and  the  liand  that  such  daring  could 
prove, 

More  fitly  were  guided  in  woman's  true  mission  — 
The  mission  of  mercy,  compassion  and  love. 

And  while  for  her  country  her  heart's  deepest  feeling 
May  burn  with  that  zeal  which  a  patriot  may  bear, 

In  her  still,  quiet  chamber,  in  agony  kneeling. 
She  may  powerfully  wield  the  strong  weapon  of 
prayer. 

Yea,  stronger  and  fitter  for  woman's  sure  wielding, 
The  prayer  of  true  faith  and  firm  trust  in  her 
God, 

For  angels  may  come,  when  He  bids,  safely  shield- 
ing 

Herself  and  her  land  from  oppression's  strong  rod. 

But  should  it  descend,  and  all  wrathfully  crushing 
Their  hearts  in  the  dust,  by  the  weight  of  its 
power  — 

Remember  that  Christ,  while  his  heart's  blood  was 

gushing, 

Was  strengthened  by  angels  in  agony's  hour. 


62  IlAllP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

Yet  a  welcome   we   give  thee,  —  0  Hungary's 
daughter ! 

A  welcome  sincere  to  the  land  of  the  free  ! 
Though  we  grieve  that  thy  hand  hath  engaged  in  the 
slaughter, 

We'll  pity  and  pray  for  thy  country  and  thee. 


OUR  UNION. 

Written  on  seeing  the  following  sentiment  from  an  eminent 
statesman :  Let  our  Union  be  preserved,  though  we  have  to 
fight  for  it."  * 

I. 

May  Grod  preserve  our  Union, 

Our  peace  and  liberty  : 
Long  may  our  glorious  banner  wave 

O'er  prosperous  states  and  free, 
From  rough  Atlantic's  rock-bound  coasts 

To  mild  Pacific's  shore. 
Hail  to  a  nation  great  and  free  ! 

Live,  —  love  —  forevermore  ! 

What  though  of  various  form  and  hue, 

Of  different  clime  and  tongue, 
The  new  world's  ample  fields  are  held 

Her  different  tribes  among  ? 
Hath  not  one  Father  made  us  all, 

And  made  us  of  one  blood  ? 
And  shall  we  not  all  find  at  last 

One  home  beneath  the  sod  ? 


*  Referring  to  slavery. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

'TIs  true  our  nation  has  its  faults  — 

What  nation  has  them  not  ? 
For  nations,  as  for  men  —  to  err 

Is  but  the  common  lot. 
But  how  shall  we  our  errors  mend, 

How  rise  to  nobler  aims  ? 
And  how  shall  we  attain  that  point 

Our  welfare  loudly  claims  ? 

Shall  we  the  mote  from  others'  eyes 

Attempt  with  zealous  care 
To  pluck,  while  in  our  own,  perhaps, 

A  beam  is  resting  there  ? 
Nay,  rather  let  us  each  our  own, 

Our  numerous  faults  amend, 
Then  let  our  care  and  zeal  be  shown 

To  help  our  erring  friend. 

Unto  our  common  Father  we 

Our  sins  should  first  confess, 
Then  ask  his  aid  our  efforts  true 

For  others'  good  to  bless. 
And  then  with  loving  hearts  and  words 

Our  brethren's  wrongs  portray. 
Entreating  them  with  earnest  love 

To  choose  the  better  way. 

For  <^rievous  thrusts  and  bitter  words 

Will  but  their  anger  stir. 
And  though  the  wrong  they  may  perceive, 

They  longer  will  defer 
To  choose  the  right,  than  if  by  love 

And  kindly  actions  drawn  : 
Then  henceforth  let  all  bitterness 

Of  thought  and  word  be  gone. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

0  let  us  labor  on  in  hope  ; 

The  time  will  surely  come, 
When  slavery  in  all  our  land 

Shall  meet  its  threatened  doom. 
Then  with  a  nobler  shout  we'll  sing 

All  round  from  sea  to  sea, 
^'  Long  live  —  long  live  America, 

The  prosperous  and  the  free/' 

II. 

Thus  sang  the  muse  when  the  dim  dawn 

Had  gilded  but  the  hill-tops  round. 
Leaving  the  valleys,  streams  and  lawns 

Still  wrapt  in  darkness  most  profound. 
As  higher  up  the  light  ascends, 

Revealing  all  the  landscape  clear. 
Another  strain  abroad  she  sends  ; 

Then  lend  anew  thy  listening  ear. 

Freeman  !  arouse  !  for  a  giant  foe 

Boldly  invadeth  our  nation  ; 
Arm  ye,  and  forth  to  the  conflict  go ; 

Come  ye  from  every  station. 
Come  ye  as  once  came  Washington, 

Leaving  the  plough  in  the  furrow, 
Ye  who  for  gold  in  the  hidden  mine 

From  morn  until  evening  burrow. 
Leave  ye  the  anvil  and  the  forge, 

Leave  ye  the  spade  and  shovel, 
Come  from  palace  and  mansion  fair. 

Come  from  the  hut  and  the  hovel. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS, 


Come  from  the  ways  of  commerce  broad, 

Come  from  the  halls  of  science, 
Come  from  the  pulpit  and  the  bar, 

Bidding  the  foe  defiance. 
Smite  not  unless  the  stern  command 

Loudly  from  heaven  is  spoken  ; 
Yet  must  the  fetters  from  the  hand 

Of  every  slave  be  broken. 
Let  not  your  arms  of  contest  be 

Sword  or  glittering  spear, 
Use  ye  not  cannon  or  musketry, 

Bombshell  or  bayonet  here. 

Take  ye  the  ballot-box  and  pen, 
Take  ye  the  press  with  its  earnest  men, 
Take  ye  the  naked  sword  of  truth, 
List  ye  the  aged,  and  the  youth. 
Take  with  you  words  of  wisdom  rare, 
Take  ye  the  weapon  of  earnest  prayer. 
Arm  with  the  Spirit's  mighty  sword, 
Strongest  of  weapons  is  God's  own  word. 
Yea,  though  all  other  weapons  fail, 
Miglity  is  truth,  and  must  prevail ! 

When  thou  shalt  forth  to  the  battle  go, 
Slay  not  thy  friend  and  brother, 

Boldly  unite  to  attack  the  foe, 
Bo  not  devour  each  other. 

Give  to  the  world,  in  its  breadth  and  length, 

Proof  of  the  maxim,  "  Union  is  strength  ;  " 

Still  let  the  watchword  be  for  all, 
Stand  we  united — divided  we  fall." 


66 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS 


Fear  not  thyself  for  the  truth  to  die  ; 
If  tbeie  be  need  that  require  it, 

Life  —  precious  life  on  the  altar  lie, 
Though  thy  own  brother  desire  it ; 
Rather  than  raise  thy  weapon  to  kill, 
Rather  than  thou  his  blood  should  ;^pill. 

Sadly  do  they  themselves  deceive, 

Who  aver,  and  would  make  the  world  believQ 

There  is  more  true  courage  with  sword  in  hand, 

Before  the  invading  foe  to  stand. 

Than  with  guileless  soul  and  brow  serene, 

With  naught  but  a  trusting  heart  between, 

Unarmed  to  meet  the  angry  foe, 

And  calmly  await  the  deadly  blow. 

Who  could  more  justly  without  pretence. 

Earnestly  plead  in  favor. 
Claim,  too,  the  right  of  self-defence, 

Than  the  wronged  and  insulted  Saviour  ? 
Yet  when  by  raising  one  feeble  cry 
Myriads  of  warriors  had  come  from  the  sky, 
Meekly  a  martyr  he  chose  to  die. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  LEARNING  THERE  WERE  TWO  THOU- 
SAND PLACES  WHERE  LIQUORS  ARE  SOLD  IN  OUR 
CITY.'' 

Two  thousand  openings  from  the  pit  of  woe. 
In  our  loved  city  by  tlie  wayside  lying  ! 

Two  thousand  haunts  where  young  and  aged  go 
To  quench  with  liquid  fire  their  thirst  undying ! 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


67 


Two  thousand  poisoned  fountains  issuing  forth, 
To  carry  pain,  and  woe,  and  desolation 

From  east  to  west,  from  south  to  farthest  north, 
Through  our  own  land,  and  throughout  every 
nation  ! 

Fair  city  of  the  Pilgrims,  blush  for  shame  ! 

Bow  low  thy  head,  and  weep  with  deep  contrition  ; 
Purge  out  those  blots  that  sully  thy  fair  fame, 

Sink  those  foul  pits  in  their  own  home  —  per- 
dition ! 

Sons  of  the  Pilgrims,  to  the  rescue  come ! 

Come  every  mother,  sister,  wife,  and  daughter ; 
Quench,  quench  the  fires  lit  by  the  demon  Rum 

And  his  base  kindred,  in  heaven's  own  pure 
water  ! 

Thus  far,  no  farther  shall  your  influence  go, 

Who  light  these  fires  of  death,  the  heart  consum- 
ing, 

Who  from  these  fountains  mix  the  cup  of  woe, 
To  misery  and  death  our  children  dooming. 

Woe,  woe  upon  your  spirits  e'er  shall  rest, 

A  withering  curse  your  hopes  and  prospects  blight- 
ing ; 

A  guilty  conscience  gnaw  within  your  breast, 
If  still  these  solemn  warnings  ye  are  slighting. 

Almighty  Arm  !  awake,  exert  thy  power  ! 

O'erturn,  subdue  the  wrongs  of  our  great  city  ; 
Hasten  the  time  !  —  bring  near  the  joyful  hour ; 

Look  on  us  —  save  us,  in  thy  tender  pity  ! 


68 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


For  this,  ten  thousand  thousand  prayers  arise 

From  earnest  hearts,  low  at  Heaven's  footstool 
bending ; 

From  deepest  agony  they  pierce  the  skies, 
Into  the  listening  ear  of  God  ascending. 

Soon  may  thy  heavenly,  sweet,  majestic  flow 
Roll  through  the  earth,  blest  river  of  salvation, 

Till  wrong  and  sin,  and  misery  and  woe 
Be  swept  afar  from  off  the  wide  creation. 

Then  shall  no  more  the  oath,  the  wanton  song, 
The  curse,  the  drunken  fight,  our  ears  be  greet- 
ing; 

No  more  those  dens  of  vice  allure  to  wrong, 
That  now  the  pure,  the  innocent  are  meeting. 

No  more  shall  greedy  Mammon  heap  his  store 

From  broken   hearts,  from   souls   in  bondage 
groaning ; 

No  more  the  poor  scorned  from  the  rich  man's 
door, 

Or  friendless  outcast  left  in  misery  moaning,  — 

But  love  and  joy  from  every  he^rt  shall  flow, 

Peace  and  good- will  shall  spread,  like  hallowed 
leaven. 

From  soul  to  soul  —  from  land  to  land  shall  go,  — 
God's  will  be  done,  as  by  the  blest  in  heaven ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

"WASHINa  A  SWEAEER'S  MOUTH.' 

Yes,  wash  the  swearer's  month 
From  oaths  and  jests  unclean, 

Cleanse  well  the  lips  that  utter  forth 
Curses  and  words  obscene  ; 

And  mother,  teach  thy  darling  son 

Ever  the  swearer's  path  to  shun. 

Wash,  too,  the  swearer's  heart, 

Here  is  the  seat  of  sin  ; 
Thence  oaths  and  blasphemies  depart 

From  that  dark  fount  within  ; 
And  many  a  black  and  evil  deed, 
As  turbid  waters,  thence  proceed. 

From  out  a  fountain  vile 

Pure  waters  cannot  flow  ; 
If  sin  the  heart  defile, 

Forth  to  the  lips  't  will  go ; 
First  let  the  soul  be  pure  within, 
Then  may  ye  make  the  outward  clean. 

But  from  what  earthly  source 

Shall  we  the  waters  bring? 
Stop  we  the  Ganges  in  its  course, 

Or  find  some  healing  spring 
Or  fuller's  soap  ?  —  We  try  in  vain ; 
The  Ethiop  dark  will  still  remain. 

There  flows  from  Calvary's  mount, 
A  pure  and  cleansing  stream ; 

Whoever  washes  at  this  fount 
Shall  make  his  spirit  clean ; 

Here  let  the  swearer  cleanse  his  heart, 

And  from  his  oaths  forever  part. 


70 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


THE  UNFAITHFUL  SERVANT. 

"  He  that  knoweth  his  master's  will  and  doeth  it  not,  shall  be 
beaten  with  many  stripes." 

Ye  knew  your  duty,  but  ye  did  it  not ;  " 

What  awful  words  to  fall  upon  thine  ear  ! 
None  of  thy  past  neglects  will  be  forgot, 

But  in  the  judgment  to  thy  grief  appear. 

'Tis  not  because  thy  blessed  Master's  will 

Far  from  thy  view  in  darkness  lies  concealed ; 

The  sacred  Word  of  truth  is  with  thee  still, 
And  there  thy  every  duty  is  revealed. 

Yes,  and  the  Spirit's  solemn  warning  voice, 
How  often  to  thy  inmost  soul  has  spoke, 

Entreating  thee  to  make  the  better  choice. 
And  for  a  season  has  thy  slumbers  broke. 

But  soon  again  in  wilful  sleep  were  closed 

Thine  eyes,  and  shut  against  the  sacred  light ; 

In  worldly  joys  secure  hast  thou  reposed, 

Until 't  was  hushed  and  taken  from  thee  quite. 

But  is  it  thus  ?  —  and  does  that  voice  no  more 
Now  in  the  hours  of  thought  thy  spirit  press  — 

Urge  thee  thy  vain  excuses  to  give  o'er, 
Proving  again  his  power  to  own  and  bless  ? 

O  hear  it  still,  and  hearing  mayst  thou  live ; 

Though  late,  the  heavenly  monitor  obey ; 
To  God  anew  thy  time  and  talents  give, 

And  turn  thy  feet  into  the  heavenly  way. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLUWS. 


71 


So  shall  thy  rising  family  in  thoo 

A  guide  and  leader  to  the  Saviour  find ; 

And  as  thou  followest  Christ,  a  pattern  be 
To  all  who  seek  the  Saviour's  lowly  mind. 

Those  precious  ones  committed  to  thy  care, 
Oh,  train  for  heaven  and  immortality  ; 

Lead  thou  their  footsteps  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
And  at  thy  fireside  altar  bow  the  knee. 

And  when  thou  sittest  in  thy  quiet  home, 
Instruct  them  in  the  sacred  Word  divine ; 

Or  when  thou  risest  up  or  far  dost  roam, 
Still  to  them  by  the  wayside  drop  the  line. 

So  shall,  in  later  years,  thy  children  blest, 
Revere  their  godly  father's  memory  ; 

Each  heavenly  precept  on  their  minds  imprest. 
Shall  prove  a*blessing  to  thy  family. 

Ye  knew  your  duty,  but  ye  did  it  not !  " 
Oh,  mayst  thou  not  this  sound  in  judgment 
hear ; 

But  may  it  be  at  last  thy  happy  lot. 

With  all  thy  family  in  heaven 't  appear  ! 


TO  A  MEMBER  OF  A  GENEALOGICAL 
SOCIETY. 

"  Jesus  saith  unto  liim,  Follow  me." 
Thou  who  the  ancestral  names  of  fame  and  glory, 

In  Europe  and  thy  native  land  hast  sought, 
And  many  an  honored  name  and  pleasing  story 

To  grace  thy  records  and  its  annals,  brought ; 


72 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


Who  in  thy  line  far  back  in  time  extending, 
So  many  noble,  gifted  names  canst  trace, 

And  in  thy  country's  annals  high  ascending, 

Thy  own  with   them  wouldst   nobly,  proudly 
place ; 

And  who  in  lordly  hall  and  ancient  dwelling, 
Bearing  thy  name,  familiarly  hast  trod  ; 

And  in  thy  veins  who  feelest  still  is  welling 
The  blood  of  those  who  suffered  for  their  God, 

Thy  Master  unto  thee  is  loudly  calling, 
Thy  labor  in  the  vineyard  doth  require ; 

Listen,  obey  ;  before  his  altar  falling, 
Thy  spirit  bathed  with  pure  celestial  fiie, 

Go  forth,  and  take  a  higher  honored  station  — 
Ambassador  of  Christ  the  heavenly  King  ; 

So  shalt  thou  gather  souls  throughout  the  nation, 
And  to  thy  Master  gladly  thou  shalt  bring. 

And  so  thy  name  upon  the  book  of  heaven 

By  record-angel  joyfully  be  traced. 
So  shall  a  sceptre  then  to  thee  be  given. 

Unfading  crown  upon  thy  head  be  placed. 

So  shalt  thou  then  both  enter  at  the  portal, 
And  dwell  in  mansion  richer —  costlier  far, 

And  wealth  possess,  and  friends,  and  fame  immor- 
tal- 
Outshining  earth  as  sun  the  feeblest  star. 

This  message  now  to  thee  the  King  is  sending, 
He  waits  thy  answer  at  this  hour  of  prayer  ; 

Angels,  perchance,  around  thee  are  attending, 
Waiting  thy  answer  to  thy  King  to  bear. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


No  midway  spot  is  given  for  thy  choosing,  — 

"  For  or  against,"  though  many  virtues  thine  ; 
Poise  well  the  scale  —  earth's  fleeting  honors  los- 
ing, 

But  gaining  those  immortal  and  divine  ! 

Past  is  the  freshness  of  thy  youth's  bright  morning, 

But  still  for  thee  the  Saviour  kind  doth  wait ; 
Hear  yet  again  the  Spirit's  solemn  warning, 
ten,  and  heed  it,  e'er  it  be  too  late  ! 


THE  STOEMY  PETREL. 

While  o'er  the  fields  of  ocean  wandering, 

'Neath  tropic  sun  and  southern  sky, 
On  all  its  varied  scenery  pondering, 

One  little  bird  hath  met  mine  eye  ;  — 
'Tis  not  in  fair  and  pleasant  weather, 

When  all  is  tranquil  and  serene. 
With  soaring  wing  and  glossy  feather, 

This  little  bird  ling  oft  is  seen. 

But  when  the  angry  surge  is  roaring, 

And  storm  and  tempest  sweep  the  sky. 
It  then  is  seen  delighted  soaring, 

Seeming  the  tempest  to  defy ; 
Or  in  the  surge  its  feet  is  laving. 

And  sporting  with  its  briny  foam, 
Its  dashing  and  its  fury  braving, 

The  storm  and  tempest  is  its  home  ! 


74 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWY S. 


And  I  have  seen  upon  life's  ocean 

A  bird  that  hath  immortal  wing^. 
And  who  in  scenes  of  wild  commotion 

Soars  in  the  storm  —  exults  and  sings  ; 
But  when  the  storm  its  fury  spending, 

In  quietness  and  calm  subsides,  — 
Her  soaring  and  her  singing  ending. 

She  smoothe  along  the  current  glides. 

With  drooping  wing  and  spirit  fainting, 

She  scarcely  seems  to  live  or  move  ; 
Her  courage  and  her  faith  are  wanting, 

Her  active  zeal  and  fervent  love,  — 
Till,  roused  by  storm  and  lightning  gleaming, 

Upward  again  she  lifts  her  eye ; 
Then  soars  and  sings  with  joyous  seeming : 

That  bird  immortal  —  sure  am  I ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


75 


LINES  ^ 

WRITTEN  IN  A  TEMPEST. 

'T  is  the  voice  of  my  God  in  the  thunder  I  hear  ; 
Tlien  why  should  I  shrink  with  dismay  and  with 
fear  ? 

I'hough  deafening  the  peals  that  are  rolling  above, 
They  are  accents  to  me  but  of  mercy  and  love. 

Though  the  quick  lightning  flash  and  the  loud  thun- 
der roar, 

Though  the  clouds  may  their  contents  in  cataracts 
pour, 

Though  the  hurricane  sweep,  and  all  nature  alarm, 
I'm  safe  with  my  Father  —  he  '11  shield  me  from 
harm. 

Or  if  in  his  wisdom  the  lightning's  swift  dart 
He  should  please  to  permit  to  be  aimed  at  my  heart, 
'T  will  be  well ;  to  his  care  I  my  spirit  commend,  — 
Yes,  with  joy,  to  the  hands  of  my  Father  and 
Friend. 

0  blessed  are  they  who  can  trust  in  the  Lord, 
Can  confide  in  his  care,  and  believe  in  his  Word ; 
He 's  a  refuge  in  trouble,  a  help  in  distress, 

A  shelter  in  storm,  and  in  war  their  sweet  peace. 

1  fear  not,  my  Father,  the  tempest  and  storm, 
I  lean  with  delight  on  thy  sheltering  arm ; 

When  the  storms  and  the  tempests  of  life  are  all 
past. 

To  the  haven  of  bliss,  0  receive  me  at  last. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

THE  EMIGRANT'S  FAEEWELL. 

Must  I  leave  my  own  dear  valley, 

My  peaceful,  quiet  home, 
For  the  far-off  Western  forest, 

A  str^inger  there  to  roam  ?  — 
The  sweet  and  flowing  waters 

Of  my  own  dear  native  stream, 
Where  I've  oft  in  childhood  wandered 

'Mid  many  a  waking  dream  ? 

Must  I  leave  familiar  faces 

I  have  known  from  childhood's  hour, 
Rendered  dear  by  acts  of  kindness, 

And  friendship's  hallowing  power, 
For  the  cold  and  distant  stranger 

That  my  heart  may  never  know  ?  — 
From  the  friends  that  around  me  cluster, 

Oh,  must  I,  must  I  go  ? 

The  house  where  my  fathers  worshipped, 

That  hallowed  place  of  prayer 
Where  my  friends  and  kindred  gather, 

Shall  I  never  meet  them  there  ? 
0  strongly  entwined  are  my  heart-strings 

Round  the  scenes  of  my  native  home  — 
Must  these  silvery  cords  be  severed, 

And  far,  far  away  must  I  roam  ? 

Must  I  leave  the  village  churchyard. 

Where  my  parents'  ashes  lie  V 
And  your  graves,  my  precious  children, 

The  dearest,  tenderest  tie  ? 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


One  deep,  deep  burst  of  feeling, 

One  gush  from  the  heart's  deep  well, 

And  I  'II  bid  your  graves,  my  darlings, 
A  long  and  last  farewell ! 

Farewell  to  thee,  lovely  valley,  • 

To  me  as  enchanted  ground ; 
Farewell  to  yon  circling  hill-tops, 

With  your  noble  forests  crowned ; 
Shall  I  find,  when  afar  I  wander, 

Hills  and  vales  as  bright  as  these,  — 
Waters  pure  as  my  own  dear  river, 

And  as  beauteous  forest  trees  ? 

Farewell  to  my  friends  and  kindred, 

Ye  still  to  my  heart  are  dear ; 
While  it  beats  to  the  voice  of  friendship, 

Your  images  all  it  will  bear  ; 
We  will  meet  at  the  throne  of  mercy, 

And  pour  our  hearts'  warm  prayer,  — 
We  will  meet  when  this  life  is  ended. 

The  joys  of  heaven  to  share. 

And  you,  my  darling  children, 

That  I  leave  in  your  graves  so  low, 
I  will  think  of  you  hence  in  heaven, 

Where  soon  I  trust  to  go  ; 
Though  I  leave  your  mouldering  ashes. 

My  father  and  mother  dear. 
Your  spirits,  dearest  parents, 

I  shall  meet  in  a  brighter  sphere. 


78 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


MISSIONARIES'  FAEEWELL. 

Hark  !  from  afar  as  it  peals  o'er  the  mountain, 

There  comes  a  lone  erj  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
From  forest,  from  valley,  from  river,  from  fountain, — 
'T  is  the  voice  of  the  red  man  to  sorrow  consigned  I 
Christians,  oh,  hasten — yea,  hasten  to  bear  them 
The  lamp  of  salvation,  the  gospel  of  peace ! 

While  bowed  at  their  altar  of  blinded  devotion, 
There  rises  a  star  o'er  their  pathway  to  shine  ; 
They  follow  its  glimmerings  with  joyful  emotion, 
They  ask  of  the  white  man  the  Volume  divine  ! 
Christians,  oh  hasten — yea,  hasten  to  bear  them 
The  lamp  of  salvation,  the  gospel  of  peace ! 

Lord,  here  we  come — if  thou  wilt  but  send  us. 

We  joyfully  hasten  to  answer  their  call ; 
Thy  grace  may  it  guide,  and  thy  Spirit  attend  us, 
While  thus  on  thine  altar  we  offer  our  all  I 

0  yes  !  we  will  hasten  —  will  hasten  to  bear 
them 

The  lamp  of  salvation  —  the  gospel  of  peace  ! 

Though  dear  to  our  hearts  be  the  scenes  of  our  child- 
hood, 

With  joy  we  can  bid  you  a  lasting  farewell ; 

We  leave  you  to  rove  in  the  far  Western  wildwood, 

The  story  of  Calvary  to  sinners  to  tell. 

Farewell,  till  we  meet  in  the  kingdom  of  glory  — 
Our  friends  and  our  country,  we  bid  you  farewell ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


79 


TO  A  LABOREE  IN  GOD'S  VINEYARD. 

Go  forward  in  thy  work,  burst  all  the  bonds  that 
bind  thee, 

And  thou  canst  much  in  Jesus'  name  perform ; 
Pursue  thy  onward  course,  look  not  behind  thee. 
And  God  himself  shall  shield  thee  from  all  harm. 

Go  forward  in  thy  work,  thy  Saviour's  meek  ex- 
ample 

Of  firm  endurance  e'er  thy  pattern  be ; 
Look  thou  to  Him,  on  pain  and  pleasure  trample,  — 
Think  of  the  bitter  cup  he  drank  for  thee. 

Go  forward  in  thy  work,  for  much  thy  labor 's  needed, 
The  fields  are  ripe,  the  laborers  are  few ; 

Thy  prayers  and  counsels  shall  not  pass  unheeded, 
But  ever  keep  the  Spirit's  aid  in  view. 

Go  forward  in  thy  work,  and  though  thou  goest 
weeping, 

Bearing  the  precious  seed  of  gospel  grace. 
Thou  shalt  return  the  golden  harvest  reaping, 
And  thy  rich  fruit  in  heaven's  garner  place. 

Go  forward  in  thy  work,  nor  let  despair  come  o'er 
thee. 

Though  now  the  cross  thou  bearest  heavily  ; 
Beneath  the  cross  behold  the  crown  before  thee. 
Be  faithful  unto  death  —  it  ever  thine  shall  be  ! 


80 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


TO  A  MISSIONARY  TO  HAYTI. 

God  bless  thee,  my  brother,  his  Spirit  attend  thee, 
While  bearing  the  news  of  the  gospel  of  peace  ; 
Though  foes  may  beset  thee,  yet  God  will  defend 
thee,  — 

Thy  heart  may  he  fill  with  his  fulness  of  grace. 

What  mingled  emotions,  what  themes  for  reflection, 
The  word  I  have  heard  from  thy  lips  doth  recall ; 

The  painful,  the  pleasing,  endeared  recollection, 
Yes,  deep  in  my  heart  still  engraved  are  they  all. 

0  thine  is  a  work  that  an  angel  might  covet, 
I  know  well  its  trials,  its  conflicts,  its  snares ; 

And  were  they  far  greater,  yet  still  should  I  love  it. 
For  fruit  unto  life  everlasting  it  bears. 

The  lights  and  the  shadows,  the  joy  and  the  sadness, 
The  hopes  and  the  fears,  and  the  toil  and  the  strife, 

Now  sinking  desponding,  now  rising  in  gladness  — 
All  these  thou  wilt  find  in  the  scenes  of  thy  life. 

But  mark  thou  the  steps  of  thy  Saviour  before  thee, 
While  passing  through  earth  on  his  mission  of  love. 
When  waves  of  deep  trouble  and  pain  shall  come  o'er 
thee, 

His  patience  and  meekness  and  zeal  mayst  thou 
prove. 

Return  to  thy  vineyard,  and  though  now  with  weeping 
Thou  bearest  the  seed  of  the  word  to  thee  given, 

With  joy  the  blest  harvest  thou  'It  shortly  be  reaping. 
And  place  the  rich  sheaves  in  the  garner  of  heaven. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS, 


81 


CONVERSION    OF   AN   INDIAN  CHIEF. 

0  't  was  a  hallowed  evening  there, 

When  the  savage  chieftain  knelt  in  prayer, 

In  the  teacher's  humble  dwelling ; 
'Neath  the  burden  of  sin  his  soul  was  bowed, 
And  his  accents  of  prayer  were  heard  aloud, 

While  his  heart  with  grief  was  swelling. 

He  had  lived  in  the  darkness  of  heathen  night, 
On  his  mind  ne'er  had  shone  the  gospel  light, 

Till  he  heard  the  white  man's  teaching 
Of  a  Saviour  that  came  from  heaven  to  save, 
Of  a  state  beyond  the  darksome  grave. 

And  he  gladly  had  heard  the  preaching. 
The  Spirit  of  God  had  pierced  his  heart 
With  conviction's  keen  and  painful  dart, 

All  his  sins  were  arrayed  before  him ; 
And  with  him  there  bowed  a  praying  few, 
And  around  him  kneeled  his  kindred  too, 

Yea,  and  angels  hovered  o'er  him. 

'T  was  a  still  and  a  sacred,  solemn  hour, 
A  time  of  the  Spirit's  mighty  power, 

And  our  hearts  with  unuttered  groaning, 
Now  raised  to  God  the  prayer  of  faith 
That  He  would  save  this  soul  from  death  — 

This  captive  in  bondage  moaning. 


82 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


Then  a  silent  awe  filled  all  the  rooni, 

And  we  knew  that  the  Comforter  had  come, 

Had  healed  the  heart  that  was  broken, 
Had  released  the  soul  from  its  distress, 
And  words  of  forgiveness,  salvation  and  peace 

To  the  chieftain's  heart  had  spoken. 

So  we  all  from  our  kneeling  place  arose, 
And  awhile  we  sat  in  a  calm  repose,  — 

When  the  chieftain  the  silence  breaking. 
His  voice  in  gladness  began  to  raise, 
And  our  hearts  were  filled  with  joy  and  praise. 

As  we  heard  him  with  tears  thus  speaking  : 

"I  have  been  a  warrior  strong  and  bold, 
I  have  feared  not  the  storm,  nor  the  heat,  nor  the 
cold, 

And  never  have  fled  from  danger  ; 
I  have  had  a  brave  heart  that  knew  no  fear ; 
Who  has  seen  from  these  eyes  ever  flow  the  tcnr, 
Till  we  met  in  the  house  of  the  white  man  heie, 
Who  dwells  in  our  midst  a  stranger  ? 

"The  words  of  life  that  to  us  were  brought, 
I  believed  because  the  teacher  thus  taught,  — 

They  entered  then  to  my  ear ; 
But  now  to  my  heart  they  have  come,  I  know. 
Bringing  joy  and  peace,  and  I  know  they  are 

true, 

It  is  God's  own  Spirit  has  taught  me  so, 
I  know  it  —  I  feel  it  here  ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


83 


^'  Oh,  the  love  of  Christ,  higher  far  than  thought ! 
Oh,  the  glorious  change  in  my  soul  he  hath 
wrought ! — 
It  is  past  all  human  telling ! 
My  kindred  and  friends,  will  ye  seek  him  too  'I  — 
He  hath  died  for  me,  He  hath  died  for  you, 
0  that  all  the  world  this  Saviour  knew  !  "  — 

Thus  the  words  from  his  heart  were  welling. 

Then  he  bowed,  with  his  kindred  kneeling  by, 
And  he  raised  to.  Heaven  his  imploring  cry  ; 

Then  a  solemn  silence  keeping, 
He  whispered  soft  in  each  listening  ear  : 
"  Give  your  heart  to  Christ  —  He  is  here,  He  is 
here  ! " 

And  God  heard  the  cry  —  gave  the  smile  for  the 
tear, 

And  the  song  for  the  voice  of  weeping ! 

0  that  ye  who  deem  this  sudden  change 
In  the  human  heart  a  delusion  strange, 

Had  then  with  us  been  kneeling,  — 
Seen  the  power  of  Christ  on  this  savage  breast, 
With  its  calm  of  peace,  and  the  hush  of  rest, 
And  each  face  in  its  smile  of  heaven  drest 

In  that  hour  of  solemn  feeling  ! 


84 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS 

AUTUMN. 


Again  in  my  quiet,  sequestered  retreat, 
Endeared  by  long  absence  I  take  my  loved  seat,  — 
But  alas !  what  a  change  o'er  the  landscape  is  spread, 
Its  beauties  are  faded  —  its  charms  are  all  dead  ! 

When  last  I  was  here,  how  delightful  the  scene  ! 
The  trees  all  arrayed  in  their  foliage  of  green  ; 
The  plants  and  the  flowers  all  rejoicing  and  bright, 
And  I  gazed  on  their  beauties  with  purest  delight. 

The  birds  all  sang  gayly  amid  the  green  trees, 
The  butterfly  danced,  and  the  brisk  honey-bees 
Kegaled  on  the  flowers  that  around  me  were  spread  ; 
But  now  they  're  departed ;  the  flowers  too  are  dead. 

Save  one  lonely  violet  that  'neath  the  sere  leaves 
Hides  her  tearful  blue  eye  as  in  silence  she  grieves 
O'er  the  loss  of  her  kindred  —  e'en  the  tear  in  her  eye 
Is  now  chilled  by  the  frost,  and  the  flow 'ret  must  die . 

Ah  !  what  cruel  spoiler  has  chanced  here  to  stray, 
While  I  from  my  treasures  have  been  far  away  ? 
'T  is  Autumn,  drear  Autumn  I  know  here  has  past. 
For  I  feel  at  this  moment  his  chilling,  cold  blast ! 


KARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


85 


0  why,  cruel  Autumn,  why  injure  me  so, 
My  joys  to  take  from  me,  my  pleasures  lay  low  ? 
Only  sorrow  and  sadness  thou  bring'st  to  the  heart, 
Oh  Autumn,  sad  Autumn,  I  pray  thee  depart. 

Though  a  guest  so  unwelcome,  I 'm  sent  by  His 
hand, 

Who  this  garden  of  earth  in  his  wisdom  has  planned ; 
My  time  is  appointed,  I  come  at  his  will, 
And  the  work  that  he  gives  me  I  gladly  fulfil. 

"  The  fields  with  their  harvests  were  waiting  for  me, 
The  fruit  trees  were  groaning  my  gatherers  to  see ; 
The  gardens  were  calling,  for  fear  winter's  frost 
Would  destroy  all  their  fruits,  and  their  treasures  be 
lost. 

I  have  sent  for  the  reapers  to  gather  the  fields. 
And  the  fruit  that  the  orchard  so  bounteously  yields ; 
The  gardens  have  furnished  their  generous  supply, 
And  the  delicate  seeds  I  have  choicely  laid  by. 

"  The  sap  of  the  trees  I  have  sent  to  the  root. 
To  preserve  it  securely  for  next  summer's  fruit ; 
The  leaves  I  have  strown  on  the  tender  plants  round. 
To  be,  while  they  shelter,  enriching  the  ground. 

With  frost  I  have  sprinkled  the  earth  to  prepare 
The  unwary,  and  bid  them  for  winter  to  care ; 
The  feeble  my  pure  cooling  air  will  revive. 
And  vigor  and  strength,  to  the  invalid  give. 

Farewell !  — I  must  leave,  for  my  labor  is  o'er, 
And  I  speed  on  my  visit  to  yon  southern  shore  ; 
But  ere  on  my  journey  I  hasten  away, 
A  word  of  instruction  to  thee  will  convey :  — 


86 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


*'  The  beautiful  foliage  that  waved  over  thee, 
No  longer  is  waving  —  but  what  dost  thou  see  ?  — 
The  pure  sky  above  thee  appears  to  thy  view, 
And  yonder  broad  landscape  so  gloriously  too. 

Those  forest-crowned  hills — those  low,  lovely  vales, 
That  pure  flowing  stream,  and  those  sweet  pleasant 
dales,  — 

Those  beasts  of  the  field,  and  the  cottages  there. 
Remind  thee  that  others  may  claim  the  same  care 

Of  thy  Father  above  as  on  thee  is  bestowed  : 
Henceforth  when  thou  judgest  the  works  of  thy  GoJ, 
I  bid  thee  remember,  thou  short-sighted  soul, 
That  all  things  are  under  his  sovereign  control." 

Thus  spake  Father  Autumn,  and  then  with  surprise 
I  saw,  as  I  lifted  my  wondering  eyes. 
New  scenes  spread  before  me,  all  beauteous  and 
bright,  — 

My  dear  cherished  arbor  had  hid  from  my  sight. 

And  thus  when  at  ease  we  in  luxury  sit, 
Engaged  with  ourselves  in  some  quiet  retreat, 
Are  heaven,  and  the  world  and  its  wants  hid  from  view. 
Our  God  and  our  neighbor  forgotten  are  too. 

But  when  sad  misfortune,  like  Autumn's  rough  blast. 
Sweeps  o'er  our  possessious,  we  see,  when 't  is  past. 
New  visions  are  opened,  —  the  heavens  above, 
And  the  world  where  our  thoughts  and  our  labors 
should  move. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


87 


APRIL. 


'T  is  eve,  and  changeful  April  wears 
Mid-winter's  stormy  brow, 

Shivering  and  cold  her  form  appears, 
Wrapt  in  a  fleece  of  snow. 

Cold  blows  without  the  raging  wind, 

And  lest  the  wintry  blast 
Yon  precious  floating  bark  shall  find, 

Bind,  bind  the  storm-king  fast. 

For  there  is  one  upon  the  deep 
This  night  that 's  dear  to  me  ; 

0  may  some  guardian-angel  keep 
Safe  watch  upon  the  sea  ! 

0  changeful  April !  sure  thou  art 

A  wild,  capricious  thing. 
Unworthy  child  to  bear  a  part 

In  the  mild  rule  of  Spring. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

But  yesterday  thy  blandest  smile 

Illumined  all  around, 
While  birds  the  morning  hours  beguile 

With  airs  of  sweetest  sound. 

The  little  children  all  went  forth 

To  hear  their  cheerful  lay, 
And  seek  the  plants  of  rarest  worth 

To  deck  their  Queen  of  May. 

One  found  the  choicest  ivy-leaves, 

With  ruby  berries  crowned, 
And  one  the  fairest  laurel-wreaths 

Of  evergreen  had  bound. 

The  anemone  one  had  seen, 

One,  sweet  arbutus  flowers, 
And  all  for  their  expected  Queen 

Prepared  inviting  bowers. 

Children,-  and  birds,  and  parents  too. 
Were  happy,  blithe  and  gay,  — 

All  joyed  to  welcome  thus  anew 
The  coming  of  sweet  May. 

But  thou  hast  dashed  their  cup  of  joy 

With  thy  capricious  rule,  — 
If  I  were  some  mischievous  boy 

I 'd  call  thee  April-fool ! 

RESPONSE. 

Hush  !  hush  !  thou  wild,  tumultuous  heart 

Be  still,  thou  troubled  soul ! 
Know  that  the  seasons  all  are  kept 

Under  thy  God's  control. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

The  treasures  of  the  snow  are  his, 
The  winds  are  in  his  hand  ; 

The  rain,  the  hail,  all  issue  forth 
At  his  divine  command. 

The  lightnings  his  swift  arrows  are, 
His  voice  the  thunder's  roar ; 

The  clouds  are  his  triumphal  car, 
All  earth  he  watches  o  er. 

The  smallest  sparrow  cannot  fall 

Unnoticed  by  his  eye ; 
He  hears  the  youngest  ravens'  call 

Whene'er  for  food  they  cry. 

Then  bow  before  his  sovereign  sway 
Without  a  murmuring  word  ; 

The  seasons  all  their  God  obey,  — 
Obey  !  —  and  trust  thy  Lord  ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

'THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  ACTUAL." 

It  is  a  sweet  and  hallowed  hour  : 
Awhile  my  little  flock  I  leave, 

To  sit  within  yon  shady  bower 
On  this  delightful  Sabbath  eve. 

How  soothing  thus  to  steal  away 
From  noise,  fatigue,  and  busy  care, 

And  spend  the  closing  Sabbath-day 
In  silent  thought  and  humble  prayer. 

To  my  worn  spirit  what  a  balm 
This  sunset  scenery  affords,  — 

This  summer  air,  so  still,  so  calm, 
The  evening  carol  of  the  birds. 

Here,  'neath  this  shady  birchen  tree, 

Upon  a  mossy  seat  I  sit. 
Which  little  hands  have  formed  for  me, 

With  fragrant  flowers  strown  at  my  feet. 

How  beautiful !  —  but  ah,  a  pause 
In  contemplation's  favorite  lay,  — 

A  little  voice  my  spirit  draws 
Back  to  life's  busy  scenes  away. 

Well,  be  it  thus  —  a  Father's  hand 
Hath  wisely  meted  out  my  lot, 

While  on  life's  active  stage  I  stand, 
Alternate  scenes  of  toil  and  thought. 

For  this  calm  hour,  these  twilight  prayers, 

Beneath  this  shady  birchen  tree, 
Better  prepared  to  meet  my  cares. 
My  Heavenly  Father,  I  would  be. 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


THE  DYING  LEAF. 

"  I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh.'* 

'T  was  on  a  lovely  evening 

Of  a  bright  autumnal  day, 
That  to  a  neighboring  forest 

I  pursued  my  lonely  way,  — 
To  leave  awhile  all  earthly  care, 

And  all  familiar  things, 
And  draw  refreshing  water 

From  contemplation's  springs. 

I  knelt  me  down  beneath  a  tree, 

Where  often  I  had  strayed, 
And  oft  had  gathered  strength  and  hope 

Beneath  its  cooling  shade,  — 
And  asked  of  God,  my  Father  God, 

That  he  his  aid  would  lend, 
That  better  might  my  spirit  be 

For  the  hour  I  here  might  spend. 

A  soft  and  gentle  zephyr  came,  — 
From  heaven  I  thought  it  strayed,  — 

And  through  the  trees'  thin  foliage 
.  With  a  low  sigh  it  played  ; 

And  I  heard  a  gentle  murmuring 
From  the  drooping  leaflets  round,  — 

But  from  one  more  pallid  that  the  rest. 
There  came  a  plaintive  sound  : 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 

The  summer  is  departed, 

Its  beauties  all  are  fled, 
And  many  of  my  kindred 

Are  numbered  with  the  dead ! 
And  soon  I  too  must  follow, 

For  life  is  ebbing  fast  — 
My  place,  perchance,  will  be  with  them 

At  the  next  northern  blast ! 

*^  0  what  has  been  this  life  to  me 

But  one  short  summer-day  ? 
I  linger  but  a  moment  here, 

Then  I  must  pass  away  : 
Yet  would  not  of  my  lot  complain, 

Though  life  has  been  so  brief, 
If  I  had  been  of  any  use  — 

Alas  !  I 'm  but  a  leaf ! 

The  bright  and  merry  songsters 

Which  have  warbled  in  our  wood, 
A  happy,  useful  life  they  live 

In  doing  others  good  ; 
They  build  their  nests  and  rear  their  youn 

And  sing  to  passers-by. 
And  ere  comes  on  the  wintry  blast 

To  warmer  climes  they  fly. 

*'  The  thousand  insects  passing  by, 

The  very  worms  that  crawl,  — 
There 's  not  a  thing  so  mean  as  I 

That 's  found  among  them  all ; 
For  to  them  the  boon  is  given, 

Where'er  they  wish,  to  move, 
And  for  each  other  seem  to  feel 

Kind  sympathy  and  love. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


93 


The  little  flowers  and  plants  that  lie 

Profusely  scattered  round, 
Have  all  their  little  tasks  performed 

Since  they  peeped  above  the  ground ; 
Some  have  filled  the  air  with  fragrance, 

Given  to  birds  and  bees  their  food ; 
Some  charmed  the  eye,  some  healed  the  sick, 

And  they 've  all  been  doing  good. 

And  though  like  me  they  wither 

When  Autumn  comes,  and  mourn,  — 
They  will  revive  and  bloom  again, 

At  gentle  Spring's  return ! 
And  so  I,  too,  had  I  the  power 

To  leave  the  parent  stem, 
And  plant  myself  within  the  earth, 

Might  live  and  bloom  like  them  !  " 

Then  all  the  little  leaflets 

Murmured  their  loud  assent, 
And  said  they  wished  that  their  short  life 

Had  for  some  use  been  spent 
But  soon  I  heard  another  voice, 

And  looking  round  could  see 
The  kindly  tones  proceeded  forth 

From  out  the  parent  tree. 

*^  Dear  fading,  dying  leaflets. 

It  fills  my  heart  with  grief 
To  part  with  you  —  I  feel  a  pang 

For  each  departing  leaf ; 
But  shall  the  thing  which  God  has  formed 

Ask  why  he  made  it  so  ? 
Ah,  no  I  methinks  your  gentle  hearts 

Will  freely  answer  *  No.' 


IL\RP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Then  do  not  thus,  dear  leaflets, 

0  do  not  thus  complain, 
Nor  pain  your  hearts  with  the  sad  thought 

That  ye  were  formed  in  vain. 
Ye  were  my  glory  and  my  crown, 

Delighting  every  eye, 
Oft  calling  to  my  cooling  shade 

The  weary  passers-by." 

The  painter  and  the  poet  too, 

Your  lovely  forms  have  traced, 
And  offc  with  leaflets  such  as  you, 

The  victor's  brow  they 've  graced  ; 
How  many  a  weary  pilgrim 

Beneath  my  shade  hath  knelt. 
And  fanned  and  soothed  by  your  sweet  breath, 

New  life  and  vigor  felt. 

Though  ye  are  now  departing, 

Ye  shall  not  useless  lie. 
But  many  a  faithful  lesson  preach 

To  travellers  passing  by. 
Ye  will  a  shield  and  covering  be 

To  many  a  tender  flower. 
And  insect  tribes  a  home  shall  find 

Beneath  your  sheltering  power. 

And  when  ye  with  the  common  dust 

Shall  mingle  —  will  arise 
Some  beauteous  flowers  to  fragrance  give, 

And  charm  beholders'  eyes  ! 
Then  go  unto  your  resting-place, 

And  peaceful  end  your  days  — 
Not  with  the  voice  of  sad  complaint, 

But  songs  of  joy  and  praise. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE  * 

A  FABLE. 

There  roamed  within  a  forest  wide, 
With  stately  step  and  conscious  pride, 

And  free,  majestic  mien, 
Whether  or  quick  or  slow  his  pace, 
The  noblest  lion  of  his  race 

That  e'er  on  earth  was  seen. 


*  Addressed  to  a  minister  of  the  gospel. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

Great  was  his  wisdom,  great  his  power, 
And  well  he  knew  to  watch  the  hour 

Best  to  secure  his  prey  ; 
Each  beast  that  roamed  the  forest  o'er, 
In  terror  at  his  dreadful  roar. 

Fled  in  affright  away. 

A  foe  unseen,  with  skilful  art, 
Quite  near  the  most  frequented  part 

Where  lion  used  to  stray, 
A  net  of  strongest  texture  wove, 
And  with  his  utmost  wisdom  strove 

To  take  him  for  his  prey. 

One  day  when  all  was  bright  and  fair, 
Forth  went  the  lion  from  his  lair, 

When,  in  a  heedless  hour, 
The  net  around  his  form  was  thrown. 
And  there  —  forsaken  and  alone  — 

He  lay  deprived  of  power. 

A  prisoner  now  himself  he  found  ; 
To  take  one  stride  or  make  one  bound, 

Alas  !  in  vain  he  tries  ; 
Repeats  his  efforts  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  then,  with  a  despairing  roar. 

Submissive,  down  he  lies. 

A  little  mouse  from  his  retreat 
Creeping  his  morning  meal  to  eat, 

The  lion  chanced  to  spy ; 
Oft  had  he  sought  his  eye  to  gain, 
But  with  a  sullen,  proud  disdain, 

The  lion  passed  him  by. 


HARP  OP  THE  WILLOWS. 

But  mousey's  heart,  with  pity  moved, 
Would  fain  unto  the  lion  prove 

A  friend  in  time  of  need ; 
And  thrice  he  tremblingly  essayed 
To  give  the  royal  captive  aid, 

But  him  he  would  not  heed. 

Wearied  with  efforts  vain,  at  length, 
Despairing  and  deprived  of  ^^tror^^h. 

He  lays  him  down  to  die,  — 
When  God  to  mousey  courage  gave, 
And  sent  him  forth  his  friend  to  save  — 

God  hears  the  lion's  cry  ! 

His  little  teeth  he  then  applied. 
And  at  the  meshes  by  his  side 

He  nibbled  quietly. 
When  forth  the  lordly  forest-king 
Bounded  with  one  triumphant  spring,  — 

The  captive  then  was  free. 

And  now  ye  powerful,  wise  and  great, 
Who  sit  on  high  in  church  or  state, 

From  this  a  lesson  learn ; 
The  feeblest,  though  obscure  and  weak. 
That  humbly  tries  your  good  to  seek, 

Ne'er  from  your  presence  spurn. 

"A  cat  may  look  upon  a  king;" 
The  humblest  and  the  weakest  thing 

Is  not  without  its  use ; 
The  lowest,  most  degraded  poor, 
The  meanest  beggar  at  your  door 

Should  not  receive  abuse. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

There 's  nothing  pleases  Satan  more 
Than  fast  to  get  within  his  power 

The  minister  of  heaven  ; 
Not  openly,  but  in  disguise, 
With  them  his  choicest  arts  he  tries,  — 

Beware  then  of  his  leaven. 

Sin,  though  it  be  a  little  one, 
Around  the  soul  it  fixes  on 

A  net  of  iron  weaves  ; 
Though  fine  as  gossamer  it  be, 
And  though  all  unobserved  by  thee. 

Thy  soul  a  captive  leaves. 

How  small,  how  trifling  was  the  deed 
Of  Eve  —  how  scarcely  worth  the  heed, 

An  apple  but  to  eat !  — 
So  fair,  so  pleasant  to  the  eyes, 
So  fitted  too  to  make  one  wise, 

And  to  the  taste  so  sweet ! 

O  let  us,  from  this  sacred  hour. 
Be  free  from  Satan's  cruel  power, 

No  more  in  bondage  groan  ; 
Henceforth  to  sin  our  reckoning  be 
Forever  dead  —  forever  free  — 

We  '11  live  to  Christ  alone. 

Then  will* the  spirit  from  on  high, 
In  answer  to  our  earnest  cry. 

Again  on  us  descend  ; 
The  people  and  the  priests  shall  prove 
The  heights  and  depths  of  Jesus'  love. 

And  grace  in  triumph  end. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


99 


LINES 

WRITTEN    ON    HEARING    THE    DOCTRINES    OF  SECOND 
ADVENTISM. 

It  matters  not  to  me, 

Though  sad  the  thought  may  be, 

Whether  dissolved  by  death  this  frame  shall  lie 
hmg  underneath  the  ground, 
Or,  when  the  trump  shall  sound, 

Alive  in  Christ  shall  be  caught  up  on  high. 
Joyful  I 'd  yield  my  breath, 
Since  Jesus  tasted  death, 

And  in  the  grave  hath  lain,  our  souls  to  save  ! 
Triumphantly  I 'd  sing, 
0  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ?  — 

And  where 's  thy  victory,  thou  boasting  Grave  ? 

It  matters  not  to  me 

Whether  immediately 
I  enter  on  my  high  and  full  reward; 

Enough  for  me  to  know, 

If  from  the  flesh  I  go. 
That  I  shall  be  forever  with  the  Lord. 

Nor  would  it  much  abate, 

Though  the  unconscious  state. 
Which  some  affirm  is  after  death,  were  mine ; 

A  thousand  years  would  seem 

But  as  a  moment's  dream 
When  I  awake  in  glory  all  divine  ! 


100  HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

It  matters  not  to  me 

Whether  my  dust  shall  be 
Each  particle  restored,  to  build  again 

That  house  not  made  with  hands 

Which  all  immortal  stands 
In  light  and  glory  on  the  heavenly  plains ; 

0 't  is  enough  for  me 

To  bear  in  memory 
What  is  recorded  in  the  sacred  Word  — 

That  glorious,  all  divine, 

My  body  then  shall  shine 
Like  to  the  glorious  image  of  my  Lord ! 

It  matters  not  to  me 

Whether  immediately 
Thou,  Lord,  shalt  come  and  claim  me  for  thine  own  ; 

Or  whether  many  years 

I  in  this  vale  of  tears 
Shall  still  remain  —  thy  blessed  will  be  done. 

Whether  thou  soon  shalt  come 

To  give  to  each  his  doom, 
Or  future  ages  shall  thy  advent  see. 

Is  known  alone  to  thee ; 

And 't  is  enough  for  me 
If  I  prepared  for  that  event  may  be. 

It  matters  not  to  me 

Where,  in  immensity, 
The  mansions  of  the  blest  shall  have  a  place  ;  — 

For  God  with  them  shall  dwell, 

And  every  fear  shall  quell, 
And  there  they  shall  behold  him  face  to  face. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


101 


No  sorrow,  grief,  or  pain 

Shall  e'er  molest  again, 
But  en(lless  praises  shall  their  tongue  employ  — 
"  Worthy  the  precious  Lamb, 

Praise  to  his  blessed  name 
Whose  blood  hath  brought  us  to  this  world  of  joy." 

It  matters  much  to  me 

Whether  prepared  I  be 
These  glorious  blessings  with  the  saints  to  share, 

Since  on  my  conduct  here,  — 

(What  cause  have  I  to  fear !)  — 
Depends  —  ah,  yes  !  —  depends  my  portion  there  ! 

None  but  the  pure  in  heart 

Shall  in  that  song  have  part, 
Sung  by  the  throng  around  the  heavenly  throne. 

Lord,  let  thy  Spirit's  light 

Guide  —  ever  guide  me  right, 
And  claim  me  here,  and  ever,  for  thine  own. 


THE  PULPIT  IN  THE  GRAVEYARD. 

Written  on  seeing  an  old  pulpit  in  a  graveyard  near  where 
the  church  to  which  it  formerly  belonged  had  stood. 

The  pulpit  in  the  graveyard  ! 

With  what  a  solemn  awe 
Near  to  this  sacred  relic 

With  trembling  steps  I  draw  ! 
Fit  place  for  Contemplation 

To  plume  her  thoughtful  wings, 
Though  slow  and  sad  must  be  the  dirge 

In  such  a  place  she  sings. 


102 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Though  in  the  sacred  pulpit 

I  ne'er  before  have  stood, 
Lo  !  here  I  stand  —  behind  me 

The  deep  and  silent  wood  ; 
Before  me  —  what  a  company !  — 

The  dead  all  slumbering  he ; 
Yet  not  to  them  my  message, 

But  to  you,  ye  passers-by. 

How  many  warnings  from  this  sacred  place, 

To  this  low  crowd  the  man  of  God  has  given  !  — 

How  many  offers  of  a  Saviour's  grace, 
And  invitations  to  a  peaceful  heaven ! 

Oh,  none  can  know  the  agonizing  thought,  — 
Though  some,  perchance,  have  seen  the  fallin 
tear,  — 

The  burdened  heart  the  man  of  God  has  brought, 
Or  inward  groaning  of  the  spirit,  here. 

And  have  unhallowed  feet  e'er  entered  here, 
Or  low  desire,  or  grovelling,  earth-born  care  ? 

Satan  of  old  used  sometimes  to  appear 

Among  God's  children  in  the  house  of  prayer. 

0  ye  who  at  God's  altar 

The  bread  of  life  supply 
With  hands  and  hearts  defiled,  — 

What  guilt  doth  on  you  lie  ! 
When  your  account  ye  render 

Unto  the  Judge  severe, 
0  say,  unholy  preacher. 

Where,  where  wilt  thou  appear  ? 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


10:3 


And  Fome,  perhaps,  who  in  this  place  have  stood, 
Have  ceased  on  earth  to  raise  their  warning  voice, 

And,  landed  safe  beyond  death's  chilling  flood, 
With  starry  crowns  now  evermore  rejoice. 

And  thou,  forsaken  and  deserted  desk, 

Full  well  hast  thou  fulfilled  on  earth  thy  trust ; 

'T  is  fit  that  here  thy  relics  too  should  rest, 
And  moulder  back  again  into  the  dust. 

This  silent  crowd  before  me,  — 

How  peacefully  they  lie ! 
Once  to  this  sacred  pulpit 

Each  raised  a  thoughtful  eye ; 
But  now  the  sod  hath  covered 

Each  living,  active  form. 
Their  health  and  grace  and  beauty 

Have  fed  the  preying  worm. 

And  you  that  now  are  passing 

Their  graves  unheeded  by, 
How  soon  ye  too  beneath  the  sod 

As  low  as  they  must  lie  ! 
0,  pause  awhile,  and  listen, 

One  precious  moment  spend, 
And  let  us  well  consider. 

Betimes,  your  latter  end. 

These  worldly  plans  and  scheming, 

This  thirst  for  earthly  good. 
This  idle,  thouo;htless  dreamino; 

Can  never  here  intrude  ; 
Of  all  your  large  possessions 

That  ye  have  loved  so  well, 
None  but  the  shroud  and  coffin 

Will  fit  your  narrow  cell ! 


104 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


But  oh  !  if  this  were  all  your  latter  end, 
And  here,  at  length,  ye  might  forever  rest, 

Then 't  would  be  well  your  time  in  mirth  to  spend, 
And  seek  but  earthly  good  to  fill  your  breast. 

But  how,  0  sinner,  in  that  awful  hour, 

When  summoned  to  His  bar  thy  spirit  stands, 

Beneath  the  weight  of  the  Almighty's  power. 

With  none  to  raise  for  thee  his  pleading  hands,  — 

How  wilt  thou  wish  this  precious  life's  return. 
When  pardon,  peace,  and  heaven  were  offered  thee ; 

How  o'er  thy  fatal  madness  wilt  thou  mourn, 
That  thou  didst  choose  to  die  eternally ! 

Heaven  yet  is  thine  ;  here  in  this  sacred  place, 
In  God's  own  name  't  is  offered  unto  thee  ; 

His  terms  accept,  be  freely  saved  by  grace, 
And  when,  with  all  this  silent  company, 

Ye  too  shall  stand  before  your  Maker's  face, 
And  sentence  for  your  actions  here  be  given, 

May  you  with  joy  at  his  right  hand  appear, 

And  hear  him  say,    Come  up,  ye  blest,  to  heaven!" 


THE  INFIDEL'S  LAMENT  OVER  THE 
DEPARTED. 

Farewell  forever  !  farewell  forever  ! 
Oh,  sad  and  cruel  fate, 

Thus  to  dissever 

Love's  bright  endearing  chain, 
Ne'er  to  be  re-linked  again, 

Never,  no,  never ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Farewell  forever  !  farewell  forever  ! 
Oh,  my  loved  companion, 

Say,  shall  I  never 
Gaze  again  upon  that  brow, 
All  so  cold  and  silent  now  ? 

Never,  no,  never  ! 

Farewell  forever  !  farewell  forever  ! 
Let  me  press  that  brow  once  more ; 

Then  I  '11  endeavor 
To  forget  this  painful  scene, 
And  this  anguish  now  so  keen,  — 

Yet  can  I  never  ! 

Farewell  forever  !  farewell  forever  ! 
In  the  dark  and  dismal  grave 

Sleep  thou,  forever ! 
0  cruel  fate  of  thine,  — 
Dreadful  thought,  't  will  soon  be  mine, 

In  the  grave  forever  ! 


THE  CHRISTIAN'S  FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  my  loved  one, 

Yet  not  forever ! 
Though  love's  sweet,  endearing  ties 

Death  may  dissever, 
'T  is  but  for  a  season,  love  ; 
Soon  they  '11  be  re-linked  above, 

In  heaven  forever ! 


106 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Farewell,  my  loved  one, 
Yet  not  forever  ! 
Though  again  upon  that  brow, 
Cold  and  mortal  as 't  is  now, 

Gaze  I  shall,  never  !  — 
Yet,  immortal  and  divine, 
Bright  in  glory  thou  shalt  shine  — 
Blessed,  forever  1 

Farewell,  my  loved  one  !  — 
Thou  hast  forever 
Bade  adieu  to  grief  and  pain  ; 
Ne'er  shall  they  disturb  again. 
But  thou  wilt  ever 
Sing  the  song,  with  saints  above, 
Of  a  dying  Saviour's  love  — 
Ever,  forever ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD  OF  A  DEAH 
FRIEND. 

It  cannot  be  !  most  surely  I  am  dreaming ! 

Death  hath  not  set  his  seal  on  that  bright  brow! 
He  is  not  dead  !    That  eye  so  brightly  beaming, 

That  voice  so  sweet,  —  I  see,  I  hear  him  now. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


107 


So  late  in  life  and  health  I  saw  him  glowing, 
With  active  gport  and  childish  playfulness, 

I  thought  that  God  the  treasure  was  bestowing 
For  many  years  his  parent's  heart  to  bless. 

Yet  whence  those  tears  ?  —  behold,  his  mother  weep- 
eth! 

He  is  not  dead  — He  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth." 

"  Yes,  he  is  dead  !    My  heart  with  grief  is  swelling, 

Within  the  grave  my  treasure  is  laid  low ; 
Lonely  and  drear  seems  my  deserted  dwelling, 

I  miss  his  step  wherever  now  I  go. 
I  miss  him  at  his  early  hour  of  waking, 

I  miss  his  place  beside  me  in  his  chair, 
I  miss  him  when  my  lonely  walks  I 'm  taking, 

And  when  I  see  the  clothes  he  used  to  wear. 
To  hear  his  voice,  to  greet  his  eye  I  languish, 

0  pity  me,  my  sister,  in  my  anguish." 

My  heart  doth  mourn  for  thee  with  deepest  feeling, 

Although  thy  loss  I  ne'er  can  comprehend  ; 
Look  thou  to  Him  who,  all  thy  anguish  healing. 

Will  be  the  mourner's  tender,  faithful  friend. 
To  Him  I  trust  thine  eye  of  faith  is  turning, 

A  refuge  thou  wilt  find  him  in  distress ; 
0  hear  his  voice,  though  deeply  thou  art  mourning, 

And  may  his  words  have  power  to  cheer  and  bless. 
Fear,  fear  thou  not ;  thy  God  thy  treasure  keepeth, 

He  is  not  dead  —  he  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth.'^ 


108 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


He  was  a  lovely  child,  so  full  of  life  and  beauty, 

And  gladness  spread  wherever  he  might  move  ; 
So  well  performed  his  every  childish  duty, 

That  no  one  ever  saw  him  but  to  love. 
But  he  is  gone,  no  more  by  pain  attended, 

No  grief  or  sorrow  shall  he  ever  know  ; 
And  thou,  when  all  thy  labors  here  are  ended, 

Unto  thy  child,  dear  mother,  thou  wilt  go. 
Then  dry  thy  tears,  thy  God  thy  treasure  keepeth, 

He  is  not  dead —    he  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth. 

But  he  will  wake  again  on  that  blest  morning, 

When  all  the  ransomed  from  their  beds  arise ; 
Then  with  what  joy,  with  all  the  saints  returning, 

Thou  'It  meet  thy  child  with  Jesus  in  the  skies. 
Then  dry  thy  tears,  and  let  the  promise  cheer  thee,- 

All  those  who  sleep  in  Jesus  he  shall  bring. 
The  time  is  short,  thy  God  is  ever  near  thee, 

His  presence  oft  shall  cause  thy  heart  to  sing ; 
The  time  is  short  —  thy  God  in  safety  keepeth 

Thy  little  one  —  sweetly  in  Christ  he  sleepeth. 


EMILY. 

They  bear  thee  hence,  our  loved  one, 

To  thy  last,  quiet  home, 
They  bear  thee  from  our  presence, 

Where  pain  can  never  come. 
Those  days  and  nights  of  anguish 

Are  now  forever  fled. 
And  yet  it  scarcely  seemeth, 

My  daughter,  thou  art  dead. 


HARP  OP   THE  WILLOWS. 

The  sun  shines  through  our  casement 

As  bright  as  ever  now, 
The  zephyrs  blow  as  gently, 

As  sweet  yon  waters  flow. 
The  green  and  lovely  valley, 

Spread  out  before  our  view, 
With  its  shady  elm  and  maple 

Wears  still  as  rich  a  hue. 

The  flowers  thy  hand  hath  planted 

Still  flourish  in  our  sight, 
The  harp  that  to  thy  gentle  touch 

E'er  yielded  fresh  delight, 
The  music  of  the  songsters 

Which  warbled  at  our  door, 
Are  all,  perchance,  to  others. 

As  sweet  as  e'er  before. 

But  a  shade  is  on  the  sunlight 

To  us  since  thou  art  gone ; 
The  gentle  evening  zephyrs 

Now  miss  the  cheek  of  one, 
And  the  sweet  and  lovely  prospect 

Spread  out  before  our  view, 
To  us  its  charms  have  faded,  — 

Thou  canst  not  see  them  too. 

The  flowers  thy  hand  hath  cherished, 

Oh,  how  they  speak  of  thee  ! 
The  harp  that  once  gave  music 

Must  ever  silent  be. 
And  e'en  the  joyous  songsters 

Seem  to  take  another  tone. 
To  us  their  notes  are  sadness 

Since  Emily  is  gone. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

Mj  mother,  dearest  mother, 

Why  shouldst  thou  weep  for  me  ? 
Thy  daughter  from  the  ills  of  earth 

Is  now  forever  free. 
Earth's  scenes,  't  is  true,  have  faded 

From  my  enraptured  sight, 
But  on  prospects  far  more  glorious 

I  gaze  with  pure  delight. 

The  plants  that  there  I  nurtured 

Would  die  beneath  my  care, 
But  here,  forever  blooming, 

Are  richest  plants  and  rare ; 
The  amaranth,  the  myrtle. 

The  rose  of  Sharon,  too, 
Yielding  celestial  fragrance, 

Sparkling  with  heavenly  dew. 

Strains  of  celestial  music 

Float  ever  on  mine  ear, 
A  golden  harp  most  precious, 

I  tune  delighted  here. 
None  of  earth's  low  discordant  tones 

Are  yielded  to  my  touch, 
These  prospects,  flowers,  this  music,  — 

Would  that  ye  too  had  such  ! 

The  choicest  heavenly  spirits, 

Jesus  the  Saviour  too. 
Who  died  that  we  might  live  above, 

I  now  with  rapture  view. 
No  more  the  light  of  earth  I  need ; 

Beams  from  that  Blessed  One 
Shine  ever  on  us  day  and  night : 

God  is  our  glorious  Sun. 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


Ill 


Could  I  but  lift  for  you  the  veil 

Which  hides  from  mortal  view 
The  glories  of  this  unseen  world, 

That  ye  might  see  them  too,  — 
Then  how  would  all  the  world  calls  great 

Unto  your  vision  seem  ; 
And  all  this  earth's  gay  vanities 

Appear  an  empty  dream  ! 

0  mother,  dearest  mother, 

Amid  thy  many  cares. 
Amid  the  grief  and  toil  of  earth, 

And  all  its  tempting  snares, 
Fain  would  my  spirit  breathe  to  thee 

The  pure,  sweet  air  of  heaven ; 
Fain  would  I  say  from  Christ  to  thee, 

Thy  sins  are  all  forgiven. 

My  father,  dearest  father, 

0  take  the  sacred  Word 
And  read  it  to  thy  children. 

Then  bow  before  the  Lord. 
0  raise  to  God  an  altar, 

And  bow  in  daily  prayer, 
And  my  spirit  shall  meet  with  thee 

At  morn  and  evening  there. 

My  sister  and  my  brother. 

And  my  little  Ella  too. 
Hear  ye  your  dearest  sister 

While  she  speaks  a  word  to  you  : 
Kemember  your  Creator, 

0  pray  and  seek  the  Lord, 
For  they  that  early  seek  shall  find,  — 

Thus  saith  God's  holy  word. 


112 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


Had  I  my  life  to  live  again, 

Then  I  would  early  seek 
The  Saviour  —  shunning  every  sin, 

And  oft  his  praises  speak. 
And  ye  may  have  a  heaven  below 

By  seeking  heavenly  grace  — 
And  be  at  last  prepared  to  go 

To  see  the  Saviour's  face. 

Farewell !  to  you  I  cannot  come, 

But  ye  may  come  to  me  ; 
And  would  ye  meet  me  all  above, 

To  live  eternally, 
Then  seek  ye  all  the  grace  of  God  ; 

'T  will  fit  you  here  to  live, 
And  when  this  life  with  you  is  o'er, 

A  life  of  glory  give. 


ON  THE  SUDDEN  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG 
MAIDEN. 

The  pitcher 's  broken  at  the  fountain, 
The  weary  wheels  of  life  are  still  ; 

Life's  current  warm  hath  ceased  its  flowing. 
No  more  its  streams  their  channels  fill. 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


113 


Why  gaze  ye  on  the  form  before  you  ? 

Say,  is  your  cherished  loved  one  here  ? 
Nay,  all  ye  view  is  but  the  casket, 

The  gem,  the  jewel,  is  not  there. 

The  spirit  to  the  God  who  gave  it, 

From  the  loved  form  hath  sped  its  flight ; 

There,  mother,  there  in  silence  leave  it, 
Thy  God,  he  doeth  all  things  right. 

Though  clouds  and  darkness  are  around  him, 
Justice  and  judgment  his  abode. 

Yet  mercy  is  his  choicest  dealing, 
The  dearest  attribute  of  God. 

0,  bitter,  bitter  is  the  portion. 

That  to  thy  lips  thy  God  hath  pressed, 

Yet  drink  thou  it  without  a  murmur, 
Calm  on  thy  Saviour's  bosom  rest. 

0  father  dear  !  "  thy  loved  one  crieth, 
"  My  father,  father,  come  to  me  ! 
Before  I  die,  my  dearest  father. 
Thy  face,  oh,  how  I  long  to  see  !  " 

Far,  far  thy  earthly  father  roameth, 

Dear  child,  thy  voice  he  cannot  hear  — 

But  yet  that  piercing  cry,  it  reacheth 
Into  thy  Heavenly  Father's  ear. 

With  earnest  haste  the  message  speedeth 
To  call  that  absent  father  home. 

To  gaze  once  more  upon  his  darling 
Ere  they  consign  her  to  the  tomb. 


114 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


'T  is  all  in  vain,  the  long  delaying  ; 

No  tidings  reached  his  distant  ear ; 
Ah,  little  thought  he  Death  was  preying 

Upon  that  cherished  form  so  dear. 

For  gay  in  health  and  beauty  blooming, 
He  left  her  scarce  a  week  before. 

And  little  dreamed  ere  his  returning 
That  Death  would  enter  at  his  door. 

She  was  his  cherished,  only  daughter, 
Perchance  the  idol  of  his  heart ; 

A  parent's  love  could  ne'er  be  stronger. 
And  well  did  she  return  her  part. 

With  slow,  reluctant  steps  they  bear  her 
Toward  her  long,  last,  quiet  home. 

Each  eye  oft  turned  backward,  hoping, 
Though  late,  the  father  yet  might  come. 

He  comes  not,  and  that  lonely  mother. 
Though  round  that  form  affection  twines, 

All  that  remains  of  her  loved  Mary, 
With  sorrow  to  the  grave  consigns. 

But  to  her  lonely  home  returning, 

With  saddened  heart  she  scarce  had  come, 

Ere  the  long  wished,  long  hoped-for  father 
Comes  back  again  to  his  loved  home. 

0  there  are  scenes  in  life  too  touching 
For  painter's  art  or  poet's  pen  !  — 

The  depth  of  sorrow  who  may  fathom 
That  filled  that  father's  bosom  then  ? 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


115 


Thou  could'st  not  come  to  her,  dear  father, 
Whom  Mary  called  so  piteouslj, 

And  though  thy  heart  may  often  call  her, 
She  never  more  will  come  to  thee.  . 

But  he  that  called  and  took  thy  daughter 
Will  come  ere  long  and  call  for  thee  ; 

Delay  thou  not,  but  be  thou  ready, 
And  mayst  thou  well  prepared  be. 

Attend  unto  the  solemn  warning, 

Without  delay  give  Christ  thy  heart  — 

Grieve  not  away  the  Holy  Spirit, 
Lest  he  forever  may  depart. 


ON  THE  SUDDEN  DEATH  OF  A  LITTLE 
GIRL. 

"  Mother,  do  I  look  pretty  now  ? 
In  accents  soft  and  mild, 
With  winning  air  and  smiling  brow, 
Thus  spake  a  lovely  child. 

Her  little  locks  of  glossy  hair, 

Before  the  mirror's  face, 
She  had  arranged  with  choicest  care, 

And  sportive,  playful  grace. 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


The  mother  from  her  couch  of  pain 

Raised  her  sad  eye  and  smiled, 
And  thought  that  ne'er  so  beautiful 
'   Looked  her  sweet,  darling  child, 

Before  the  mirror  as  she  sought 
Still  some  new  charm  to  add, 

Though  in  her  heart  she  only  thought 
To  make  her  mother  glad. 

With  gentle  look,  and  brow  serene, 
And  face  so  pure  and  bright, 

An  angel  looked  upon  the  scene, 
And  pleased  with  such  a  sight, 

Said,  ^'  Come  up  to  your  heavenly  home, 

My  beautiful,  sweet  child, 
For  Jesus  kindly  bids  you  come," 

He  spoke,  and  on  her  smiled. 

Death  too  was  there,  —  and  as  he  gazed, 

His  cold  and  icy  dart. 
With  a  triumphant  air  he  raised, 

And  aimed  it  at  her  heart. 

"And  thou  mayst  strike,"  the  angel  said, 
The  word  hath  come  from  heaven; 
But  though  her  body  with  thy  dead 
Shall  soon  to  thee  be  given. 

Her  spirit  to  that  land  of  rest, 
Where  pain  nor  sorrow  come, 

I'll  bear,  and  henceforth  with  the  blest 
Shall  be  her  peaceful  home." 


nARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


117 


Death  struck  —  that  sprightly,  active  form 
Beneath  his  stroke  was  palled ; 

She  fell  —  with  terror  and  alarm 
The  anguished  mother  called. 

But  never  in  that  mortal  ear 

Affection's  voice  shall  come ; 
Mother,  thy  daughter  is  not  here, 

Thy  God  has  called  her  home. 

There  'mid  a  blessed  and  happy  throng 

Of  little  ransomed  ones, 
She  sings  their  new  and  pleasing  song 

In  sweet  and  heavenly  tones. 

Prepare  to  meet  thy  loved  one  there, 

She  beckons  thee  away ; 
0,  lightly  grasp  the  things  of  earth, 

But  ever  watch  and  pray. 

Then  when  thy  life's  last  hour  is  come, 

With  what  a  pure  delight 
Thy  child  shall  bid  thee  welcome  home, 

All  beautiful  and  bright.^ 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  TWIN  DAUGHTEE. 

Mid  one  of  changeful  April's  showers, 
A  Gardener,  skilful,  good  and  wise^ 

Placed  in  my  care  two  little  flowers, 
A  precious  gift  I  much  did  prize. 

*  The  mother  has  since  died. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


One  was  a  strong  and  hardy  plant, 
That  flourished  with  but  little  care, 

The  other  sensitive  and  frail, 

And  scarce  a  touch  or  breath  could  bear. 

The  passers-by  oft  paused  to  view 
My  cherished  flowers  I  loved  so  well, 

Though  oft  a  sigh  would  heave,  't  is  true. 
And  with  a  saddened  look  would  tell,  — 

Would  tell  me  that  the  sickly  one 
Could  never  thrive  in  earthly  soil ; 

Yet  still  with  hope  I  labored  on, 
And  light  I  counted  all  my  toil. 

The  more  they  said,  the  more  I  strove 
To  nurture  it  with  kindest  care ; 

The  tenderer,  the  more  the  love 
I  to  my  little  plant  did  bear. 

I  watched  with  hope  through  summer's  hours, 
And  well  my  flowers  seemed  to  bide, 

And  loveliest  bloomed  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  and  flourished  by  her  side. 

The  autumn  came  —  its  chilling  frost 
I  feared  would  kill  my  beauteous  flower, 

And  all  my  fondest  hopes  be  lost 
In  one  short-lived  and  fleeting  hour. 

And  when  September's  bleakest  storm 
Was  raging  hard,  I  sought  its  bed, 
But  drooping  was  that  tender  form, 
^'  Alas  ! ''  I  cried,    my  flower  is  dead !  " 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


119 


The  Gardener  came  with  pitying  look, 
And  kindly  bade  me  weep  no  more, 

And  gently  then  my  flower  he  took, 
And  to  his  home  the  prize  he  bore. 

Though  frosts  have  chilled  its  tender  form,'' 
He  said,    and  dead  it  seems  to  thee, 

ril  bear  it  where  the  blasting  storm 
And  chilling  frosts  may  never  be. 

'Twill  bloom  henceforth  in  Paradise 

With  an  imperishable  bloom  — 
Then  weep  no  more,  but  dry  thine  eyes, 
Thou  too  thyself  shalt  shortly  come." 


WHEN  EAETHLY  PROSPECTS  PERISH. 

When  earthly  prospects  perish. 

And  creature  comforts  fail, 
My  faith  in  God  I  '11  cherish,  — 

That  faith  must  yet  prevail. 

When  filled  with  grief  and  anguish, 
When  bursts  the  aching  heart. 

And  near  to  death  I  languish. 
Thy  aid,  0  God,  impart. 

When  weight  of  sorrow  pressing 
Would  crush  the  sinking  mind, 

My  Heavenly  Father's  blessing 
Then  let  me  ever  find. 


120 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Soothe,  soothe  my  troubled  spirit, 
Let  every  murmur  cease  — 

In  thee  let  me  inherit 

Life,  health,  and  perfect  peace. 


SPIRIT  COMMUNINGS. 

Dear  mother,  grieve  no  more  ; 
Though  lost  to  thee  on  earth,  I  am  found  in  heaven, 

Where  sickness,  pain  and  sorrow  all  are  o'er ; 
Though  with  deep  grief  thy  sorrowing  heart  is  riven, 

Weep  not  for  me. 

Mother,  thou  lovedst  me  much, 
And  tender  was  the  watch-care  thou  hadst  o'er  me  ; 

But  oh,  it  was  not  such 
As,  free  from  pain  and  sickness  now,  the  angels  bear 
me  ; 

Then  grieve  no  more. 

When  first  into  mine  ear 
The  angels  whispered,    Sister,  come,"  — 

Although  they  beckoned  me  from  pain  and  fear, 
'T  was  sad  to  think  of  leaving  in  thy  lonely  home, 

Brother  and  thee. 

For  well  my  spirit  knew 
Thy  faith,  that  unto  thee  an  angel  I  was  given, 

For  I  had  often  felt  the  thoughts  within  me  too, 
To  cheer  thee  in  thy  journey  on  to  heaven  — 

But,  mother  dear, 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


121 


I  '11  often  come  to  thee,  — 
I  'II  come  to  thee  in  many  a  saddened  hour, 

And  sweetly  shall  my  spirit  speak  to  thee  ; 
Like  perfume  from  the  breath  of  fragrant  flower, 

So  shall  my  spirit's  presence  be. 

Yes,  mother,  still  to  thee, 
As  'mid  the  cares  of  life  thy  way  thou  'rt  threading, 

That  little  angel  thou  hadst  hoped,  I  '11  be, 
And  often  wipe  the  tears  I  find  thee  shedding, 

And  breathe  sweet  thoughts,  and  sing  of  heaven 
to  thee ; 
Weep,  then,  no  more  for  me. 

And  my  twin-brother  dear. 
Although  the  feeble  veil  of  flesh  that  shrouded 

This  spirit-form  is  hidden  from  his  sight, 
I  see  and  feel,  no  more  by  sense  beclouded, 

His  tender  form,  and  love  with  pure  delight, 
As  babes  on  earth  know  not. 

And  I  will  often  come. 
As  still,  upon  life's  weary  pathway  wending, 

His  little  feet  shall  stumble  or  shall  stray ; 
I  will  —  his  guardian-angel  o'er  him  bending  — 
Will  gently  lead  him  in  the  heavenly  way, 
And  bid  him  welcome  home  ! 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


«A  BIRD  OF  PASSAGE." 

A  bird  of  passage  "  to  that  peaceful  shore 
Where  winds  shall  howl  and  tempests  vex  no  more 
]No  more  to  feel  the  fowler's  hidden  snare,  — 
Fare,  fare  thee  well !  I  hasten  to  be  there. 

A  bird  of  passage  "  —  here  I  may  not  rest,  — 
Hopes,  doubts,  and  fears  alternate  fill  my  breast ; 
I  homeward  haste  to  fold  my  weary  wing. 
And  with  the  birds  of  Paradise  to  sing. 

A  bird  of  passage  "  to  that  world  of  light 
Where  never  more  may  come  the  gloomy  night ; 
Eager  I  turn  my  long-expectant  eye 
To  that  bright  portal  ope'd  beyond  the  sky. 

A  bird  of  passage  "  —  yes,  it  is  in  vain 
Longer  on  earth  my  spirit  to  detain, 
Or  stay  my  longings  for  that  radiant  home  ; 
Farewell !  farewell !  —  Yes,  shining  ones,  I  come  ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


123 


«BE  STILL  AND  KNOW  THAT  I  AM 
GOD." 

Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God," 
Thougb  now  thy  heart  be  near  to  breaking ; 
Beneath  my  weighty,  chastening  rod, 

Midst  frowning  foes,  and  friends  forsaking, 

*^  Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God," 

Though  in  the  midst  of  scenes  distressing ; 

Afflictions  come  not  from  the  sod, 

But  bring  for  thee  thy  Father's  blessing. 

Be  still  and  know  that  I  am  God," 
And  cease  this  weary,  restless  pining ; 
Pursue  the  path  thy  Saviour  trod, 

Round  him  thy  love  and  faith  entwining. 

Not  willingly  I  chasten  thee, 

Or  love  to  see  thy  spirit  grieving ; 
Soon,  soon  thy  load  shall  lightened  be, 

Thy  sorrow  soon  I  '11  be  relieving. 

Pleasure  and  pain  I  mingle  here, 

The  storm,  the  sunshine,  each  am  sending ; 

The  summer  mild,  the  winter  drear, 
The  lights  and  shadows  ever  blending. 


124 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


TO  A  POETESS. 

Would  that  tliy  gifts  were  mine  !  — 
While  listening  to  thy  sweet  and  flowing  numbers, 

A  fountain  deep  within  my  heart  is  stirred ; 
Thy  song  hath  power  to  break  my  spirit's  slumbers, 

And  call  it  forth  in  strains  too  long  unheard. 
The  earnest  thoughts,  the  deep  poetic  feeling, 

The  spirit's  fires  —  I  know,  I  feel  them  all ; 
But  yet  the  words,  those  inward  fires  revealing, 

Alas  !  alas  !  they  come  not  at  my  call. 

This  world  is  not  my  home  !  — 
In  the  extent  of  all  its  wide  dominion 

There  's  none  to  whom  my  soul  is  fully  known ; 
0  could  I  mount  and  fly,  on  angel's  pinion, 

To  that  blest  country  I  would  call  my  own  ! 
Say^  shall  it  be  that  when  no  more  encumbered 

With  this  dull  flesh,  my  soul  shall  freely  flow  ? 
When  with  the  blest  my  ardent  spirit 's  numbered, 

Shall  then  these  lips  with  joyful  numbers  flow  ? 

Might  I  but  now  be  there  !  — 
Yet  I  would  wait  not  till  death's  change  comes  o'er 
me 

T'  attain  the  power  which  earnestly  I  crave  ; 
While  here  on  earth,  I  see  a  work  before  me 

I  must  perform  before  I  reach  the  grave ; 
0  for  the  glowing  fire,  from  heaven's  pure  altar, 

To  touch  these  lips  that,  henceforth  they  might 
move 

In  breathing  accents  that  should  never  falter. 
All  full  of  heavenly  life,  and  light,  and  love. 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


125 


0  that  some  hallowed  strains,  from  harps  celestial, 
Might  reach  mine  ear,  and  with  them  power  be 

given 

To  breathe  them  forth  again  on  this  terrestrial, 
Discordant  sphere  —  the  harmony  of  heaven ! 

But  hast  thou  used  the  precious  gifts  already- 
Bestowed  upon  thee  by  a  Father's  care  ? 

These,  if  improved  by  faithful  hand  and  steady, 
Would  yet  increase,  and  brighter  be  for  wear. 

To  him  who  hath  and  what  he  hath  improveth, 
{Shall  more  be  given,  saith  the  sacred  Word ; 

Improve  thy  gifts,  work  as  the  Spirit  moveth, 
And  more  shall  be  imparted  by  thy  Lord.'^ 

The  will  of  God  be  done  I  — 
Whatever  gifts  he  deemeth 

Best  to  deny  or  grant  —  may  He  bestow  ; 
My  lot  direct,  in  what  way  fitting  seemeth, 

In  all  my  earthly  pilgrimage  below ; 

1  ask  one  boon,  —  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit, 
Such  as  the  blessed  Saviour  e'er  possessed ; 

If  not  rich  gifts,  rich  grace  may  I  inherit, 
^  Pure  love,  and  fervent  charity  e'er  fill  my  breast. 

More  excellent  this  way,  — 
For  had  I  gifts  of  angel  minds,  inspiring 

My  heart  and  tongue  to  think  and  speak  for  thee, 
Or  fervent  zeal  my  ardent  spirit  firing, 

How  powerless  all  my  efforts  still  would  be. 
In  words  of  richest  eloquence  though  calling 

The  weary  ones,  with  sin  and  grief  opprest,  — 
Like  tinkling  cymbal  on  the  ear  were  falling. 

Were  heavenly  love  a  stranger  to  my  breast ! 


126 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


Jesus,  my  pattern  be ;  — 
Thou  quiet,  meek  —  thou  lowly,  snfFering  Saviour, 

Who  in  thyself  didst  personate  this  grace, 
Filled  without  measure  —  grant  me  but  this  favor, 
Thy  own  blest  image  on  my  heart  to  trace ; 


My  life,  my  conversation  be  in  heaven,  V 
Thy  loving  spirit  ever  fill  my  breast ;  ^ 

Where'er  I  move  —  may  it,  like  hallowed  leaven, 
Around  me  spread  peace,  quiet,  heavenly  rest. 


TO  AN  ARTIST,  ON  RECEIVING  MY 
PICTURE. 

A  noble  gift  to  thee  thy  God  hath  given, 
A  wondrous  art  is  surely  this  of  thine, 

With  sunbeam  pencil  —  rays  of  light  from  heaven  — 
To  trace  the  human  countenance  divine  ! 

Thine  is  the  power  to  yield  the  purest  pleasure 
To  many  a  loving,  trusting,  absent  heart ; 

The  image  of  a  friend,  how  dear  the  treasure. 
From  which  through  life  we  never  wish  to  part.  . 

Yet  those  who  gaze  upon  thy  works  may  never 
The  labor  know  with  which  to  thee  't  is  fraught ; 

For  while  they  please,  the  works  of  genius  ever 
Bring  to  their  authors  care  and  anxious  thought. 

Is  this  my  image  —  thus  so  sadly  shaded 
With  the  dark  tints  of  sorrow  and  of  care  ? 

The  once  lit  eye  so  dim,  the  cheek  so  faded !  — 
So  little  left  of  youthful  vigor  there  ! 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


127 


\Yell,  be  it  so ;  those  lines  of  care  and  sorrow, 

Though  deeply  drawn,  I  would  erase  them  not ; 
No  tints  from  earth's  gay  glittering  scenes  I'd  bor- 
row, 

But  bow  submissive  to  my  humble  lot. 

Although  by  Fortune's  firm  decree  Tm  bidden 
To  live  an  outward  life  of  toil  and  care, 

Yet  deep  within  my  heart  a  life  is  hidden  — 
A  life  of  thought  that  others  may  not  share. 

And  yet  those  features  seem  to  me  revealing 

More  than  I  deemed  the  workings  of  the  mind,  — 

More  trace  of  thought,  reflection,  and  of  feeling, 
Than  I  expected  in  my  face  to  find. 

I'll  prize  the  gift  thou  hast  so  kindly  given, 
And  as  a  mirror  from  it  I  would  learn 

To  train  my  thoughts  and  features  more  for  heaven, 
And  more  on  God  mine  eye  of  faith  to  turn. 

Best  thanks  to  thee  —  may  every  earthly  blessing 
Thy  Father  sees  is  good  for  thee  be  thine  ; 

One  image  I  would  wish  thee  e'er  possessing, 
To  keep  within  thy  heart's  most  sacred  shrine, 

The  image  of  the  meek  and  lowly  Saviour,  — 

0  wear  it  ever,  ever  on  thy  breast ; 
And  may  his  blessed,  glorious  features,  ever 

With  heavenly  light  be  deeply  there  impress'-d. 

And  while  intently  thou  art  this  beholding. 
May  all  thy  heart  with  Jesus'  love  be  warmed, 

And  thy  soul's  features  gently,  sweetly  moulding, 
To  his  own  likeness  fully  be  transformed. 


128 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


TO  MY  HAEP. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  SICKNESS. 

I  grasp  thee  with  an  earnest  hand, 

And  with  a  yearning  heart, 
As  still  upon  life's  shores  I  stand, 

And  in  its  scenes  bear  part. 

What  hours  of  conflict,  sorrow,  pain, 
Since  last  we  met  I 've  passed, 

But  through  them  all  I'm  brought  again, 
And  here  we  meet  at  last. 

Yet  not  one  saddened  strain  I  '11  raise, 

Or  of  my  grief  complain, 
But  tune  a  song  of  heart-felt  praise, 

In  cheerful,  joyous  strain. 

For  not  one  needless  pain  or  grief 

Is  meted  out  to  me ; 
Though  sorrows  come,  yet  sweet  relief 

I  find,  my  God,  in  thee. 

Thanks  to  thy  ever  blessed  name 

For  all  thy  tender  care  ; 
Although  but  dust  this  feeble  frame, 

Yet  thou  dost  help  me  bear 

The  pain,  the  grief,  the  deep  distress. 

That  would  so  heavily 
Upon  my  burdened  spirit  press. 

Without  a  hope  in  thee  ! 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


LIFE'S  CHANGES. 

Change  after  change  comes  o'er  me, 

As  on  life's  toilsome  way, 
Witli  untried  scenes  before  me, 

I  urge  my  feeble  way  ; 
With  painful  step  and  weary, 

Thus  far,  my  God,  I've  come. 
The  prospect,  oh,  how  dreary,  — 

Fain  would  I  be  at  home  ! 

Change  after  change  comes  o'er  me, 

The  Spring  of  life  is  past. 
The  Summer,  in  its  glory 

And  freshness,  fleeting  fast ; 
The  Autumn  tinge  is  streaking 

These  raven  locks  apace, 
And  many  a  token  speaking 

Winter  must  have  its  place. 

Chano^e  after  chano-e  is  stealino;, 

Amid  the  anxious  strife 
Of  purpose,  thought  and  feeling, 

And  fears  and  hopes  of  life  ; 
The  hopes  to-day  we  cherished, 

To-morrow  all  are  fled. 
Our  pleasing  prospects  perished, 

And  numbered  with  the  dead. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Change  after  change  is  stealing, 

And  could  I  lift  the  veil, 
Each  future  scene  revealing, 

How  would  my  courage  fail ; 
But  thou,  my  God,  in  kindness, 

Hast  hid  it  from  my  sight,  — 
I  thank  thee  for  this  blindness, 

Thou  doest  all  thino;s  rmht. 

f 

The  changes  that  already 

Have  passed  with  rapid  fiight. 
With  gracious  hand  and  steady, 

Were  meted  out  aright ; 
And  now  the  retrospection 

I  hold  'neath  memory's  spell, 
Enforces  this  reflection  : 

Thou  doest  all  things  well  !  " 

The  changes  yet  remaining 

As  yet  for  mine  or  me, 
I 'd  leave  without  complaining, 

To  Thee  —  with  joy  to  Thee. 
For  death's  last  change  prepare  me, 

That  solemn,  trying  hour, 
Then  home,  my  Father,  bear  me, 

Where  sorrows  come  no  more. 


HARP  OF   TUE  WILLOWS. 


131 


LINES 

WRITTEN  DURING  THE  SESSION  OF  THE  GENERAL  CON- 
FERENCE OF  THE  M.   E.  CHURCH,  HELD  IN  BOSTON 

IN  1852. 

"  What  of  tlie  beauteous  city 

Of  our  forefathers'  God, 
Whose  hallowed  streets,  since  Wesley's  days, 

Thousands  with  joy  have  trod  ?  — 
How  fares  our  ioveiy  Zion, 

Ye  guardians  of  her  walls  ?  — 
Tell  us,  ye  watchmen  —  is  all  right  ?  "  — 

Thus  many  a  dweller  calls. 

^'  The  light  of  our  fair  city  — 

Do  not  her  vessels  need 
The  oil  of  grace  poured  in  anew, 

That  she  may  give,  indeed, 
The  light  of  faith  that  works  by  love, 

That  it  may  more  abound, 
And  the  dwellers  of  the  earth  may  see 

It  brightly  beaming  round  ? 

*'  The  gold  of  our  loved  city, — 

Is  it  not  somewhat  dim  ?  — 
The  pearl  ^  which  sainted  Fletcher  wore, 

That  heavenly  diadem,  — 
For  pearls  of  an  inferior  worth 

Is  it  not  cast  aside. 
With  which  the  Bridegroom  would  disdain 

To  deck  his  lovely  Bride  ?  " 


*J*erfect  love. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Thus  I  heard  their  accents  falling, 
Like  ocean's  murmuring  swell ; 

Then  I  heard  the  watchmen  calling, 
"  0  ye  dwellers,  all  is  well ; 

Peace,  peace  attends  our  city, 
No  foes  now  dare  molest ; 

Since  the  battles  by  our  Wesley  fought. 
In  quietness  we  rest. 

We  have  peace  in  all  our  borders, 

And  our  name  henceforth  will  spread 
Through  all  the  regions  of  the  earth, 

And  in  our  mighty  tread 
We  will  conquer  heathen  nations. 

War  and  Slavery  overthrow. 
Our  watchword,  hence,  is  '  Onward  !  ' 

In  our  Wesley's  name  we  go." 

Then  I  gazed  upon  the  watchmen 

With  mute  and  trembling  awe, 
For  as  I  gazed  among  them 

A  glorious  sight  I  saw  !  — 
Three  forms  of  light  and  glory 

In  my  vision  glided  by  ; 
A  Fletcher  one,  I  knew  him 

By  his  loving,  hallowed  eye. 

He  spake,  and  to  the  watchmen 

I  heard  him  weeping,  say  : 
I  have  come  from  realms  of  glory, 

To  meet  with  you  this  day  ; 
A  foe  is  in  your  city, 

W^ith  his  legions,  lodged  within  ; 
In  olden  times  we  called  him 

By  his  name  — '  Indwelling-sin.'  " 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


A  Wesley  next  in  thunder, 

With  tones  of  stern  command, 
Was  heard  with  silent  wonder, 

Among  that  trembling  band  : 
^ Awake!  arise,  ye  watchmen, 

Sound  aloud  the  earnest  cry, 
We  will  give  the  foe  no  quarter  — 

Death  !  —  death  or  victory  ! ' 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  —  to  battle  I '  — 

A  shout  came  pealing  by, 
We  will  give  the  foe  no  quarter  — 

Death  1  —  death  or  victory  !  '  " 

Then  he  took  from  them  the  stand  ard, 
Where  his  name  so  long  had  stood, 

Giving  one  with  this  inscription. 
Written  deep  with  Jesus'  blood  : 

*  Immanuel  —  God  is  with  us/ 
We  proclaim  with  one  accord  ; 

Death  to  sin  ! '  henceforth  our  motto 
*  Holiness  unto  the  Lord  ! '  " 

Then  two  female  forms  descended, 

All  clad  in  purest  white, 
Wearing  crowns  of  heavenly  lustre. 

Decked  with  starry  gems  and  bright 
'Twas  a  Eogers  and  a  Fletcher, 

By  their  matron  grace  I  knew,  — 
And  I  heard  them  gently  calling, 
*'  Arise,  ye  daughters,  too  !  " 


134 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Ye  daughters  of  our  Zion, 

No  more  at  ease  sit  down  ; 
The  cross  ye,  too,  must  humbly  bear, 

If  ye  would  wear  the  crown ; 
For  to  you  has  come  the  saying 

Spoken  by  our  God  of  old, 
*  My  daughters  too  shall  prophecy  I  '  — 

Then  fear  ye  not,  be  bold  ; 

"And  let  not  your  adorning 

That  outward  tinsel  be, 
Of  gold,  and  pearls,  and  costly  robes, 

But  inward  purity ; 
A  quiet,  lowly  spirit, 

A  heart  all  filled  with  love. 
And  ever  by  your  holy  works 

Your  faith  ye  then  will  prove." 

Then  their  voices  they  united, 

This  glorious,  heavenly  train, 
Led  by  one  —  the  tuneful  Wesley, 

With  his  harp  of  stirring  strain  : 
We  began  our  beauteous  city 

On  Christ,  the  corner-stone, 
Bat  think  ye  not,  ye  watchmen, 

The  building  yet  is  done. 

The  walls  of  full  salvation 

Higher  yet,  and  higher  raise. 
And  take  ye  each  your  station 

At  the  beauteous  gates  of  praise ; 
Bring  the  top-stone  forth  with  singing. 

Till  the  nations  far  and  near 
Shall  hear  the  echo  ringing, 
*  Grace  and  glory  !  '  —  *  God  is  here 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


135 


"  The  light  of  our  fair  morning, 

Though  beautiful  and  clear, 
Was  but  the  early  dawning 

Of  a  glorious  day  that 's  near  ; 
God  himself  shall  then  dwell  with  you, 

And  all  tears  shall  wipe  away,  — 
And  in  his  light  ye  all  shall  walk, 

In  blessed,  glorious  day !  " 


COMMUNION  WITH  THE  SAVIOUR. 

What  is  this  sacred,  solemn  awe 

That  o'er  ray  spirit  steals, 
Which  seems  from  earth  my  heart  to  draw, 

And  heaven's  pure  joy  reveals  ? 

Oppressed  with  the  day's  toil  and  care, 

I  entered  this  retreat, 
And  sought  in  feeble  words  of  prayer, 

My  Saviour  here  to  meet. 

But  such  a  weight  of  weariness 

Upon  my  spirit  pressed, 
It  seemed  presumptuous  to  ask 

That  here  I  might  be  blest. 

The  fear  my  prayer  would  not  prevail, 
Filled  my  sad  heart  with  grief. 

But  faith  can  pierce  the  thickest  veil 
Of  fearful  unbelief. 


186 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


Quicker  than  thought,  a  hand  unseen 
Removed  the  oppressive  load, 

And  by  my  side  there  seemed  to  stand 
One  like  the  Son  of  God  ! 

His  sacred  eye  upon  me  beamed 

With  tenderness  and  love  ; 
So  sweet  the  heavenly  presence  seemed, 

I  scarcely  dared  to  move. 

Oh,  faith  would  take  thee  by  the  hand, 
Thou  heavenly  Friend  unseen, 

And  bid  thee  near  me  e'er  to  stand 
Amid  life's  busy  scenes. 

I  would  not  leave  this  calm  retreat, 

Unless  thy  presence  still 
Shall  go  —  and  e'er  direct  my  feet 

To  shun  the  paths  of  ill. 

And,  Saviour,  wilt  thou  not  abide 

Within  my  dwelling  too, 
And  all  my  household  help  me  guide. 

And  teach  me  what  to  do  ?  — 

Calm  every  sad  and  troubled  heart, 
The  wayward  child  control, 

And  keep  the  powers  of  hell  apart 
From  every  fearful  soul  ? 

Yes,  Saviour,  thou  wilt  go  with  me, 

And  in  my  house  reside, 
Not  as  a  wayfaring  man, 

A  night  but  to  abide ; 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

But  ever,  ever  with  ns  stay, 
And  never  more  depart ; 

Then  on  life's  toilsome,  weary  way 
We  '11  go  with  gladdened  heart. 

And  thou  wilt  guide  us  on  our  road 
By  thy  sweet  Spirit's  power ; 

I  bless  thee,  O  my  Saviour,  God, 
For  this  dear  hallowed  hour. 


VISION  OF  HEAVEN. 

There  is  a  land  where  cloudless  skies 
And  verdant  fields  forever  smile, 

Where  there  are  found  no  weeping  eyes, 
But  pleasures  every  hour  beguile. 

That  land,  in  visions  ofc  I 've  seen, 
I 've  sat  beneath  its  sacred  bowers ; 

I 've  wandered  in  its  fields  so  green, 
And  plucked  its  amaranthine  flowers. 

There  floated  such  celestial  strains 
Of  sweetest  music  on  my  ear. 

From  voices  on  those  heavenly  plains, 
I  stood  in  rapturous  awe  to  hear. 

In  that  serene  and  bright  abode, 
The  purest  living  waters  flow  — 

Forth  from  beneath  the  throne  of  God, 
Throughout  that  blessed  land  they  go. 


138 


HARP  OF  THE  WILLOWS. 


From  off  those  fair  and  beauteous  bees, 
I  longed  the  tempting  fruit  to  ta^te^ 

With  earnest  hand  I  sought  to  seize,  ^ 
And  pluck  and  eat  with  eager  haste. 

And  then  with  joy  I  sought  to  drink 

From  that  pure,  tempting,  brimming  fount, 

But  heard,  e'er  I  had  reached  the  brink, 
A  voice  from  out  the  heavenly  mount : 

Not  yet  in  this  delightful  place. 
To  eat  and  drink  to  thee  is  given, 

But  earthward,  mortal,  set  thy  face. 
Nor  seek  thee  yet  the  rest  of  heaven. 

More  work  for  thee  have  I  below. 
More  trials,  sufferings,  yet  are  thine ; 

Then  cheerful  to  thy  labor  go. 

Nor  let  thy  murmuring  thoughts  repine. 

And  yet  to  cheer  thee  on  thy  road, 
Of  fruit,  this  heavenly  cluster  bear  — 

This  draught  from  out  the  fount  of  God, 
To  strengthen  for  thy  labor  there." 

I  ate,  I  drank,  and  from  that  hour, 

New  life  and  strength  were  quickly  mine  ; 

I  felt  within  a  new-born  power, 
A  foretaste  of  the  life  divine. 

The  time  is  past  —  the  vision  flown. 
Yet  since  as  on  life's  weary  way. 

With  toilsome  step  I 've  journeyed  on, 
Doth  memory  to  me  convey. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS.  139 

the  sweetness  of  that  blissful  hour, 

Oft  to  revive  me  on  the  road, 
As  perfume  from  some  fragrant  flower, 

That  lures  thee  to  thy  home-abode. 


ON  HEARING  A  SOUND  AS  OF  DISTANT 
MUSIC. 

Hark  !  on  the  listening  ear 

Music  comes  pealing  ; 
Borne  on  the  evening  air, 

Sweetly 't  is  stealing. 
Is  it  the  evening  breeze 

Just  from  the  ocean, 
Swaying  the  forest  trees 

With  gentle  motion  ? 

Is  it  some  wandering  harp 

In  the  deep  wild-wood  ? 
Or  a  lay  that  memory  brings 

Back  from  my  childhood  ? 
Nay,  't  is  a  sacred  lay, 

Wafted  from  heaven  ; 
Oh,  that  evermore  to  me 

Music  thus  were  given  ! 


HARP  OF    TUE  WILLOWS. 


That  is  a  fruitless  wish, 
Frail  child  of  feeling, 


And  thy  weak  and  erring  heart 

Plainly  reve^jling. 
Earth  is  thy  work-iiouse  now, 

And  thy  scene  of  trial, 
Cares  and  crosses  must  be  thine, 
Pain  and  self-denial. 

Music  ever  thus  divine 

Should  Heaven  permit  thee, 
For  those  duties  stern  of  thine 

It  would  unfit  thee. 
When  through  all  thy  contest  here 

Thou  art  victorious, 
Heavenly  music  shall  be  thine, 

Ever  and  glorious ! 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


-OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT/' 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
I  turn  my  inward  sight 

From  earthly  scenes  around  me  ; 
With  my  own  heart  I  then  commune, 

And  oft  the  sigh  of  sadness, 
By  fervent  prayer  is  turned  to  praise 

And  peace  and  heartfelt  gladness. 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
I  inward  turn  my  sight 

From  earthly  scenes  around  me. 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
My  Saviour  sheds  the  light 

Of  his  sweet  presence  round  me. 
While  he  is  near,  my  heart  to  cheer, 

I  feel  no  gloom  or  sadness, 
But  songs  of  love  from  heaven  above 

I  tune  with  joy  and  gladness. 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  hath  bound  me, 
My  Saviour  sheds  the  light 

Of  his  loved  presence  round  me  ! 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 

When  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
I  range  a  world  of  light. 

With  friends  that  once  were  round  me  ; 


HARP  OP   THE  WILLO/WS. 

I  sing  with  them  their  songs  of  K)ve, 

I  tune  a  harp  celestial ; 
With  a  free  wing  I  soar  above, 

And  leave  this  scene  terrestrial ; 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

When  slumber's  chains  are  round  me 
I  range  a  world  of  light, 

With  friends  that  once  were  round  me. 

Oft  in  the  stillly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
A  band  of  angels  bright 

Will  seem  to  hover  round  me  ; 
They  beckon  me  from  earth  away. 

They  point  to  heaven's  blest  portal, 
They  bid  me  go  with  them  and  know 

Joys  that  are  all  immortal ; 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
A  band  of  angels  bright 

Will  seem  to  hover  round  me  ! 

If  in  the  stilly  night, 

When  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
My  soul  shall  take  its  flight. 

With  angels  hovering  round  me,  — 
Rejoice  that  I  have  passed  away. 

Have  entered  heaven's  blest  portal  — 
No  more  shall  know  of  pain  and  woe, 

♦  But  joy  and  bliss  immortal,  — 
If  in  the  stilly  night, 

When  slumber's  chains  have  bound  me, 
My  soul  should  take  its  flight, 

With  angels  hovering  round  me  ! 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


143 


WEARY  OF  EARTH; 

OR,  fancy's  visit  to  heaven. 

This  calm  retreat,  this  silent  sylvan  shade, 

Removed  from  all  the  noisy  ills  of  life, 

Where  earthly  cares  may  not  my  breast  invade. 

Nor  hither  flow  the  waves  of  mortal  strife  — 

A  soothing  influence  o'er  my  spirit  shed, 

And  lull  it  to  a  calm  and  sweet  repose  ; 

Fit  hour  to  be  on  Fancy's  pinions  led, 

Far,  far  above  this  vale  of  mortal  woes. 

Come  then,  my  muse,  farewell  to  this  dull  vale ; 

See,  through  those  waving  tree-tops,  that  blue  sky ; 

On  yon  bright  silvery  cloud,  come,  let  us  sail, 

And  seek  a  fairer,  better  world  on  high. 

See  yonder  golden  city  !  0,  how  bright ! 

What  rainbow  hues  its  canopy  compose ; 

What  soft  and  mellowed  tints  of  heavenly  light 

The  eternal  Sun  upon  it  ever  throws ! 

Come,  let  us  walk  around  her  stately  walls, 

Survey  the  precious  stones  that  'neath  it  lie. 

Hark  !  —  Hear  that  music  !  —  on  the  ear  it  falls 

In  tones  of  sweet  celestial  harmony. 

Oh,  I  must  enter  !    See  this  pearly  gate ; 

Here,  as  we 've  been  bidden,  we  will  knock ; 

To  us  it  shall  be  opened.  —  Let  us  wait 

Until  the  angel  shall  to  us  unlock. 

"  Stranger  of  Earth,  why  hither  hast  thou  strayed, 
With  such  an  idle  vagrant^^  for  thy  guide  ? 

*  Fancy. 


144 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOW^> 


To  thus  intrude,  Fay,  art  thou  not  afraid 
That  judgment  for  thy  daring  will  betide  V  " 

I  come  a  weary  wanderer  from  the  Earth, 
Tired  of  its  strife,  and  toil,  and  vanity  ; 
For  from  the  hour  that  first  I  had  my  birth 
I 've  known  but  want,  and  pain,  and  misery. 
Oh,  how  inviting  look  your  golden  streets. 
Free  from  the  damp  and  dust  of  earthly  grounrl  ; 
The  chilling  frosts,  the  scorching  noon-da}^  hecils, 
They  say  are  never  in  your  city  found. 
Though  but  a  glimpse  this  open  portal  gives, 
What  beauteous  sights !  what  glorious  visions  fair ! 
This  pure  and  flowing  river-fount  that  lives, 
Oh,  how  unlike  the  turbid  waters  there  I 
To  drink  of  these  pure  waters  now  I  prait, 
So  parched  with  thirst,  just  at  the  point  to  die  ; 
Pity  a  weary  pilgrim,  sick  and  faint, 
And  let  me  only  at  your  portal  lie. 
These  trees  of  life  !  oh,  how  divinely  fair, 
Overhanging  all  the  crystal  stream  of  heaven  ; 
Ambrosial  fruits  their  boughs  in  plenty  bear, 
With  leaves  of  healing  for  the  nations  given. 
Oh,  what  sweet  prospects  rise  !  celestial  fields 
Clothed  in  the  richest  green  and  strewed  with  flowers, 
While  angel-bands,  choicest  that  heaven  yields, 
Are  chanting  music  in  those  heavenly  bowers. 
There 's  naught  but  barren  trees,  and  desert  plains, 
And  leafless,  fruitless  trees  in  yonder  sphere ; 
Of  music,  there  are  naught  but  piteous  strains 
Of  crying  grief  can  reach  the  wearied  ear. 
But  yet  the  richest  of  your  treasures  here 
Are  the  pure  spirits  that  are  clothed  in  white  ; 
To  dwell  with  such,  their  friendship  sweet  to  share, 
This  sure  were  bliss,  —  pure,  unalloyed  delight. 


HARP  OP    THE  WILLOWS. 


145 


Companionship  of  Earth's  unhallowed  ones, 
Never,  oh  never  again  I  wish  to  share,  — 
E'en  at  the  thought  my  spirit  inly  groans  ; 
Send,  send  me  not  again,  I  pray  thee,  there." 

Presumptuous  one!  —  and  wouldst  thou  enter 
here 

With  thy  soiled  robe,  and  dusty,  earthly  feet? 

None  but  the  pure  these  heavenly  blessings  share, 

No  foot  unclean  can  walk  our  golden  street. 

Thy  earthly  lot,  although  it  has  its  ills, 

There 's  much  that 's  beautiful  that  'neath  it  lies, 

And  many  a  thing  that  now  thy  spirit  fills 

With  grief  and  pain,  is  blessing  in  disguise. 

Seest  thou  that  company  ? — of  earth  they  were, 

And  out  of  tribulation  deep  have  come  ; 

Their  robes,  so  pure  and  white,  were  cleansed  there, 

In  Jesus'  blood,  and  in  their  heavenly  home 

They  sing  the  glorious  song  of  victory, 

From  pain  and  toil  forevermore  are  free. 

Mortal,  return,  and  never  more  complain  ; 

Win  first  the  race,  and  then  the  prize  is  given ; 

The  victor  's  crowned,  if  he  the  battle  gain, 

Earth's  labor  done  —  and  then  the  rest  of  heaven ! 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


THE  TIME  IS  SHORT. 

The  time  is  short ; 
Do  quickly  what  thou  doest." 
This  morn  an  angel  whispered  in  my  ear, 
**Mark  well  the  path  ; 
And  the  object  thou  pursuest, 
May  God  instruct  thee  —  make  thy  vision  clear. 

The  time  is  short ; 
Waste  not  in  useless  scheming, 
In  plans  for  worldly  riches  or  renown  ; 
Nor  pass  thy  time 
In  vain  and  idle  dreaming,  — 
Quicken  thy  pace  —  let  no  man  take  thy  crown." 

But  what  can  I, 
In  time  so  short  and  fleeting, 
Like  the  quick  streamlet  swiftly  gliding  by  — 
Who  am  so  weak, 
So  ignorant,  so  erring, 
Do  that  is  worth  the  doing  ?  —  angel,  say. 

Thick  round  my  path 
The  clouds  have  gathered  o'er  me, 
Barriers  at  every  step  obstruct  my  way ; 
I  cannot  see 
Clearly  the  path  before  me. 
At  every  step  I  fear  to  go  astray." 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


147 


The  time  is  short  — 
God  hath  not  left  thee  groping, 
No  light  to  guide,  no  hand  to  lead  thy  way ; 
If  dark  thy  path, 
Fear  lest  thy  steps  are  roving 
Far  from  the  ancient  path,  the  heavenly  way. 

The  time  is  short  — 
Cease,  cease  thy  vain  repining, 
And  turn  thy  feet  into  the  narrow  road ; 
For  in  that  way 
The  light  is  clearly  shining, 
'T  will  lead  thee  to  thy  Father's  safe  abode." 


448 


HARP  OF   THE  WILLOWS. 


[The  singing  of  the  following  impromptu  is  with  regret 
deferred  to  the  future  age.] 

THE  ATLANTIC  TELEGRAPH  SONG. 

Tune,  —  J?rMce'5  Address. 

Shout,  ye  people  —  all  rejoice  ! 
Let  the  earth  lift  up  her  voice  ; 
Let  the  joyful  tidings  roll 
From  the  centre  to  the  pole. 

Shout,  ye  waves,  with  joy  resound, 
From  the  Pilgrim's  Rock  rebound 
Back  to  dear  Old  England's  shore, 
Barrier  now,  thou  sea,  no  more !  — 

But  a  bond  of  union  art. 
Binding  nations  heart  to  heart ; 
Bearing  tidings  fraught  with  joy, 
Henceforth  be  thy  sweet  employ. 

Now  we  reach  the  welcome  hand, 
Back  to  our  dear  mother-land ; 
Never  seemed  thy  name  so  dear, 
England,  in  thy  daughter's  ear. 

Live,  Britannia  !  ever  live !  • — 
We  the  salutation  give ; 
Live,  Victoria  !  gentlest  queen 
Ever  yet  the  world  hath  seen. 

Praise  the  Lord  !  let  all  rehearse, 
Now  throughout  the  universe  ; 
Angels,  bending  o'er  the  scene. 
Shout,  with  tears  of  joy  between. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 


We  our  salutation  send 
Now  to  every  Eastern  friend  ;  — 
Be  Messiah's  flag  unfurled 
Throudiout  all  the  eastern  world. 

o 

Soon,  oh,  soon  the  joyful  word 
May,  from  us,  by  thee  be  heard ; 
Sends  America  to  thee, 
Joyful  word  —  "Our  slaves  are  free  ! 

Then  again  will  all  rejoice, 
Praise  the  Lord  with  heart  and  voice, 
Heaven,  delighted,  on  us  gaze, 
Join  us  in  our  songs  of  praise. 

Live,  Britannia  !  —  ever  live  ! 
We  again  our  message  give  ; 
Live,  Victoria  !  gentlest  queen 
Ever  yet  the  world  bath  seen  ! 

Europe,  humbled  in  the  dust. 
Fear  lest  thou  betray  thy  trust ; 
Shed  a  purer,  holier  light. 
Gleaming  o'er  the  nation's  night. 

Asia,  throw  thy  idols  by, 
Bow  thy  knee  to  the  Most  High ; 
Despot  rule  and  darkness  flee, 
This  the  word  we  send  to  thee. 


HARP  OF    THE  WILLOWS. 

Ethiopia,  not  again 
Be  thy  hand  reached  forth  in  vain 
Let  thy  morning's  dawning  rays 
Kindle  to  a  noontide  blaze. 

Wait  ye  still,  ye  distant  isles, 
With  alternate  tears  and  smiles ; 
Patient  wait  the  law  of  God, 
O'er  the  ocean  spread  abroad. 

Lord,  the  fulness  of  the  sea 
Soon  shall  pay  their  vows  to  thee  ; 
Earth  and  ocean  both  proclaim 
All  the  glory  of  thy  name. 

Then  the  gladdened  universe 
Shall  the  glorious  news  rehearse ; 
God  in  majesty  serene 
Gaze  in  triumph  o'er  the  scene. 


APPENDIX. 


NOTE  TO  PAGE  11. 

The  captive  referred  to  in  this  piece  was  a  little  Indian  lad 
who  was  brought  from  one  of  the  southern  tribes,  and  sold  as 
a  slave  to  the  tribe  among  which  we  labored.  It  was  their 
custom  sometimes,  when  one  of  their  own  children  died,  to 
put  these  little  slave  children  to  death,  that  they  might  go 
with  them  to  the  spirit  land,  cither  for  company  or  for  service, 
as  the  circumstances  of  their  new  state  might  require.  In  the 
present  instance  a  lad  had  died  about  twelve  years  old,  and 
having  a  slave  companion  about  his  own  age,  his  parents,  in- 
stead of  putting  him  to  death,  as  usual,  had  incarcerated  him 
in  the  sepulchre,  having  first  tied  his  hands  and  his  feet,  and 
left  him  there  to  die.  We  first  heard  of  the  circumstance  in  the 
evening  of  the  day  in  which  the  deed  was  done,  and  at  once  re- 
solved to  effect  his  escape;  but  the  place  of  burial  being  upon 
an  island,  in  the  midst  of  strong  rapids,  we  could  gain  no 
access  to  him  till  the  day  following,  when  by  means  of  a 
ransom  paid  to  the  relatives  of  the  deceased,  we  procured  his 
deliverance,  — hence  the  name  "  Ransom,"  by  which  he  was 
subsequently  called. 

NOTE  TO  PAGE  31. 

The  Rev.  Jason  Lee  was  the  first  missionary  sent  to  the 
Indians  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  He  was  a  Canadian 
by  birth,  but  was  for  some  time  a  student  at  the  Wesieyan 
Academy  at  Wilbraham,  Mass.,  where  he  formed  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  lamented  Dr.  Fisk,  who,  on  account  of  his  robust 


152 


APPENDIX. 


frame,  daring  enterprise,  and  apostolic  zeal,  singled  him  out 
for  this  hazardous  undertaking. 

He  was  subsequently  employed  by  the  Methodist  Board  of 
Missions,  and  made  the  leader  of  a  small  band  who  entered 
upon  their  work  in  the  Multnomah  Valley,  or  Willamette,  as 
it  is  now  called.  After  laboring  a  few  years,  greatly  to  the 
benefit  of  the  poor  Indians,  and  enduring  all  kinds  of  hard- 
ships, the  Board,  either  not  understanding  his  plans,  or  ceasing 
to  sympathize  with  him  in  his  work,  superseded  him  in  his 
office  while  on  his  way  to  the  seat  of  government  for  the 
transaction  of  business  for  the  mission,  in  which  his  heart 
seemed  bound  up.  The  shock  was  too  great,  and  the  disap- 
pointment too  much  for  his  shattered  nerves  and  exhausted 
frame.  He  retired  to  his  father's  house,  in  Stanstead,  Lower 
Canada,  where,  after  a  few  days  of  anguish,  both  of  body  and 
mind,  he  quietly  breathed  his  last. 


